


hear the cannons calling

by ghostinthelibrary



Series: hear the cannons calling [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, Half-Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, Idiots in Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Geralt/Jaskier/Yennefer, Pre-OT3, Smut, accidental bard acquisition, grudging acquaintances to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:47:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 56,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23201179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostinthelibrary/pseuds/ghostinthelibrary
Summary: When Geralt goes to Cintra to get Ciri out before Nilfgaard’s invasion, he meets Jaskier, the charming, blue-eyed court bard. As Cintra falls and Ciri vanishes into the night, Geralt reluctantly agrees to let Jaskier travel with him to find Ciri. But the roads in the time of Nilfgaard are long and full of danger and the two men will have to work together to survive and save the missing princess.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: hear the cannons calling [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773667
Comments: 454
Kudos: 1102





	1. destiny or no destiny

**Author's Note:**

> This AU came about while rewatching episodes 7 and 8 yesterday and thinking about how differently things could have gone for Geralt if Jaskier had been with him during the fall of Cintra. But I love writing meet cutes, so this happened. I was up until 4 AM writing it, so hopefully it's coherent.
> 
> Also, Jaskier is part-elf in this story, not for any particular plot reason, but because I've had enough of contemplating the fragility of human existence over the last few weeks, and I'm sure many of you are feeling the same way right now.
> 
> Title is from "Elsa's Song" by The Amazing Devil.

Geralt of Rivia has been alive for a long time. He’s undergone more loss, killed more monsters, and seen more death and destruction than any person should have to bear. (Whether or not he counts as a person is a discussion he doesn’t care to weigh in on.) But he would do it all again--undergo the agonizing mutations at Kaer Morhen, watch friends wither and die of old age, wade through endless amounts of blood and guts to slay beasts--if it meant that he didn’t need to be in this ballroom at this moment.

When he arrived in Cintra earlier that day, he was prepared for several scenarios. Armed guards trying to bar his way into the city, assassins slitting his throat in his sleep, attempts at deception. Instead, he’s been forced to dress in these ill-fitting silken clothing, borrowed from some anonymous nobleman, and stand against the wall, watching the Cintran nobility dance, drink, and gorge themselves.

The room hums with barely suppressed tension. Under the scents of food, wine, and perfume, there’s the unmistakable stench of fear. Everyone in the room knows that Nilfgaard will be at the city gates within days. They laugh and drink and dance like their world isn’t about to crumble around them, but Geralt notices the too-bright eyes and too-wide smiles. Even the jaunty singing of the bard, an exuberant young man in peacock blue silks, carries an underlying strain.

“You could try to look like you’re enjoying yourself, you know.” The queen’s druid advisor, Mousesack, says jovially and claps Geralt on the shoulder. They’ve known each other for decades; Mousesack is one of the few people who is brave enough to touch the infamous Butcher of Blaviken.

“I’m not.”

“Her Majesty was hoping you would keep a low profile tonight. It’s hard to keep a low profile when you’re scowling at everyone who walks by, old friend.” Mousesack studies Geralt appraisingly. “Though I imagine it’s a challenge for you to keep a low profile.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing.” But Mousesack smirks as he takes a sip of his ale.

“What am I doing here, Mousesack? I came to take the child and leave. ”

“Her name is Cirilla. Ciri.”

“I know what her name is.”

“You thought she was a boy until this morning.”

“Hm.”

Mousesack sighs. “Geralt, you have to understand, Ciri is all the queen has left. After Pavetta… well, Calanthe is not going to be disposed to let her only heir wander the countryside with a witcher, Law of Surprise or no.”

“There will be no more Cintra once Nilfgaard gets here. Calanthe won’t need an heir.”

“Cintra has survived worse threats than Nilfgaard.”

Geralt scoffs. “Is that what Calanthe is telling people? I saw their army when I was on my way here. Even with Skellige’s aid, Cintra won’t survive the invasion. The best thing for the child is to get her safely out of the city.”

From Mousesack’s silence, the mage probably agrees with him. Still, when Mousesack replies, he speaks in an even, measured tone. “Calanthe believes Cintra can hold against the Nilfgaardian forces.”

“Calanthe is a fool.”

“I wouldn’t say that too loudly, unless you want to spend the night in a dungeon, my friend.”

Geralt grunts in response. “None of this answers my question, Mousesack. What am I doing here? Why not just banish me from the city, or have me killed?”

“Her Majesty knows what happens to those who defy destiny. I believe she’s hoping you’ll see that Ciri belongs here and not on the road and relinquish your rights to the child surprise.”

“So she hopes I’ll incur the consequences for defying destiny?”

There’s another pointed silence from Mousesack. The druid has been living at court for too long. “Cirilla is a promising young woman. Good-natured, quick-witted, wise for her age. She will make a good queen someday. She belongs in Cintra. Look at her, Geralt.”

Geralt has been trying not to. Reluctantly, he allows his attention to turn to the young princess. She sits on her grandmother’s right hand side, looking as subdued as Queen Calanthe and Eist Tuirseach. Whatever news is arriving regarding Nilfgaard, it cannot be promising. She looks like the picture of a pampered princess in her dove gray dress, with her pale hair piled elaborately on top of her head. It’s true that Geralt cannot picture her sleeping in barns and spending days trekking through the woods. But if the alternative is the girl perishing under a Nilfgaardian soldier’s blade, it shouldn’t be a hard decision for Calanthe.

“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny, Geralt,” Mousesack says softly. “Twelve years ago, you laughed in the face of the Law of Surprise.”

“Destiny or no destiny, the girl is my responsibility. I won’t let her die here.”

As they watch, the young bard approaches the high table. Geralt half-expects Calanthe to have the boy run through, but the princess’s expression brightens as he approaches. They converse for several moments, with Cirilla looking more animated than she has all night.

“Who is that?” Geralt asks Mousesack.

“The bard? That’s young Jaskier. He’s the son of the Viscount de Lettenhove, though he doesn’t like people to know that. He’s been here at court for about a year now.”

“Calanthe never seemed like the type to have an in-house troubadour.”

“She’s not. We’ve never had a bard last more than a few months here before. But Ciri took a liking to him and he’s taken over her music lessons. She still can’t carry a tune, but she enjoys herself during her lessons now, which makes all of our lives easier.”

“Hm.” Geralt watches as the bard begins to sing an upbeat song about fishmongers and their offspring.

“Not this again.” Mousesack closes his eyes. “Ciri loves this song. She’ll have him play it a half dozen times tonight, unless Calanthe puts a stop to it.”

“Doesn’t seem like something a twelve year old princess would enjoy.”

“I don’t believe she actually understands the lyrics. Or she might. She does spend a lot of time playing knucklebones with the village boys.” Mousesack looks at Geralt seriously. “What now, Geralt?”

“Tomorrow, I leave Cintra with Ciri.”

“You think Her Majesty will just let you walk away with her granddaughter?”

“No.”

Mousesack laughs without humor. “The Butcher of Blaviken versus the Lioness of Cintra. They’ll sing ballads about this someday.”

“As long as he doesn’t write them.” Geralt jerks his head at the bard, who has a warm, melodious voice. It could be pleasing to listen to, if his songs weren’t so annoying. “You know that Cintra is going to fall to Nilfgaard.”

“Calanthe is a great queen and a fierce warrior.”

“Even the greatest of queens and the fiercest of warriors fall eventually. You care for the girl. Do you want her to perish with the kingdom?”

Mousesack is quiet for a long moment. “I won’t defy my queen, Geralt. I may not understand all of her decisions, or agree with them, but I will defend them to my death.”

“You mean, you’ll defend them to Cirilla’s death.”

“It won’t come to that.”

“Nilfgaard has left razed earth everywhere they’ve invaded. They leave no survivors. The heir to the Cintran throne won’t be the exception to that rule, Mousesack. I need to get her out of the city.”

The singing has finally stopped, replaced by an upbeat tune played by the band. Cirilla is dancing with a nervous-looking boy with dark hair.

“Geralt, to be honest.” Mousesack suddenly sounds tired. “When Nilfgaard is done, I don’t think anywhere on the Continent will be safe for Cirilla. Or any of us, for that matter. Now, try and enjoy yourself. And make sure to try some of the roast pheasant. It’s divine.”

“I’ll be sure to do that.” Geralt does not watch his old friend go. He has the sense that this will be the last time he sees Mousesack. He’s not the sentimental type; he’s lived too long for that. Still, it isn’t a pleasant realization.

He watches Cirilla dance with the young man. They’ve both started to relax; Cirilla is laughing and the boy doesn’t seem so nervous. Geralt is so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the bard until the young man is standing right next to him, far closer than most people are willing to get to a witcher.

“I love the way you stand in a corner and brood.”

***

Playing to a crowd facing their imminent demise is not an easy feat. Even Jaskier’s best-loved songs are getting tepid responses, at best. As he sings and strolls around the room, he tries to ignore the snatches of conversation he catches. The Nilfgaardian forces are close, closer than anyone anticipated. They’ll be here in a day, maybe two, if they’re lucky. The ships from Skellige might not make it in time.

None of it is good news. But still, Jaskier plasters a smile on his face as he sings, because if this is going to be his last performance, he’s going to make it a damn memorable one. Not that anyone in this room will survive to remember it if Cintra falls, but that’s too grim of a thought to entertain.

It’s a relief when, during a break between songs, a member of the royal guard comes up to him. “Apologies, sir, but Her Highness requests your presence.”

“No need to apologize,” Jaskier says, and he doesn’t even need to feign his cheer. “I’m always happy to make time for Her Highness.”

He saunters up to the high table. Queen Calanthe rolls her eyes at his approach, and rolls them again when he bows low to her. Jaskier never expected his time in the Cintran court to last this long; Calanthe is famously short on patience when it comes to bards and throws most of them out on their ass after only a few months. At least she doesn’t execute them if they sing the wrong song, which is still a distressingly common practice in some parts of the Continent. But Jaskier was lucky enough to become a favorite of Princess Cirilla. Everyone knows that the Lioness of Cintra is a kitten when it comes to her lion cub, so Jaskier has been allowed to stay for over a year now.

“Your Highness.” Jaskier bows to Ciri. “How is my favorite student?”

She smiles up at him. “I’m your only student, Jaskier.”

“Immune to flattery. That’s a good trait in a future queen.”

“Expecting me to drop dead soon, bard?” Queen Calanthe asks dryly.

Jaskier gapes at her. “Why, no, of course not, my queen, merely stating that the princess—”

“Leave the boy alone.” Eist looks at his wife fondly. “If he perishes of fear, who will teach Ciri to sing?”

“No more singing,” Calanthe mutters. “What a shame that would be.”

A guard comes and whispers something in the queen’s ear. Jaskier sees the queen’s expression tense and looks away, not wanting anyone to assume he’s eavesdropping. He drops into a squat so he’s eye-level with Ciri. She must be able to pick up on the tension in the room; at twelve, she’s unusually perceptive for someone her age. He’s always had a soft spot for the princess; he sees a bit of his younger self in the way she struggles under the weight of all the responsibilities placed on her shoulders. Sure, he was just the heir to a minor barony, while she’ll be the queen of one of the most powerful kingdoms on the Continent, but he recognizes the too-serious face she wears whenever she’s in a crowd of people and the way she stiffens at the most minor of corrections. He knows that Ciri already feels all her grandmother’s expectations keenly.

“Enjoying the feast?” he asks her.

Ciri would never do something as improper as wrinkling her nose in front of her grandmother and the court, but there’s a tell-tale twitch. “My grandmother is going to make me dance with Martin.”

“Martin? Oh, him.” Jaskier remembers the young, dark-haired baron’s son always making moon eyes at Ciri. “I thought you liked Martin.”

“He’s fine, but I don’t want to dance with him. His hands are always sweaty.”

“Cut him some slack, princess. That happens to the best of us.”

Ciri darts an anxious glance at her grandmother and Eist. “They won’t tell me what’s going on, but it’s bad, isn’t it?”

Jaskier hesitates. “Don’t worry about it tonight, Your Highness. Tonight, dance and eat and try not to let poor Martin step on those lovely slippers of yours.”

He’s rewarded with a giggle. “Can you play the fishmonger song?”

Jaskier looks sidelong at Calanthe. He’s not sure where Ciri learned about that song--it’s not something he would normally play in civilized company--but he assumes one of her friends heard him singing it in a tavern and told her about it. He’s had to change the lyrics significantly to make them court-appropriate. Calanthe gives him a small nod.

“Of course.” Smiling, Jaskier begins to strum on his lute. _”Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger, come quell your daughter’s hunger…”_

Luckily, Ciri seems satisfied after one rendition. She once had him sing it eight times in one evening and he half-expected Calanthe to send assassins to slit his throat in his sleep. After the song, Jaskier gives his vocal cords a break and goes to grab a tankard of ale. The whispers are growing more agitated as the night progresses.

“No survivors—”

“Barred the gates and set the whole town on fire—”

“Found his head stuck on a pike—”

“They call it the white flame—”

Jaskier shudders and drains half his tankard of ale in a few gulps. What he needs is a distraction, he decides. Something to take his mind off what the future holds. He looks around the room for the usual suspects. Lady Caris’s husband and lover are both in attendance tonight; it would be too risky to make overtures to her. Sir Geoffrey seems rather taken with some young lordling that Jaskier has never met. Rumor has it that Cecelia the lady’s maid is with child and there are at least two men claiming to be the father; it seems like a messy situation, which Jaskier wants to avoid at all costs.

His eyes fall on a stranger standing against the wall, watching the dancing nobles with an expression on his face that suggests he’s watching an outhouse be cleaned out. The stranger wears an outfit of dark gray silk that clearly belongs to a man much shorter and wider than him. Still, no unfortunate outfit can take away from the strikingness of his broad shoulders, white hair, and hawkish yellow eyes. He may be one of the most attractive people Jaskier has ever clapped eyes on, and Jaskier knows many, many attractive people.

Before Jaskier can contemplate the wisdom of approaching a strange man who looks like he could break the bard in half easily, he’s halfway across the room. He has a repertoire of charming opening lines that he cycles through. But when he opens his mouth, what comes out instead is, “I love the way you stand in a corner in brood.” As far as lines go, it’s not Jaskier’s best. It’s not even in his top ten. But it’s hard to come up with something seductive and witty when he’s faced with the sheer magnificence of the man in front of him.

“I’m here to drink alone,” the man says.

“You came to a feast to drink alone? That’s what taverns are for. Feasts are for dancing and gossip and merriment.”

“I don’t dance. Or gossip. Or partake in merriment.”

“That is a shame.” Jaskier can think of several merry activities he would love to partake in with this man. Since the other man isn’t looking at him, he allows his eyes to rove over him. His gaze pauses on the pendant peeking over the collar of the man’s ill-fitting shirt. From what Jaskier can see, it looks like a wolf.

“You’re a witcher,” Jaskier blurts out.

“You should say that louder. There are people in Posada who didn’t hear you.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops open. Of course, of all the people in this room he could have attempted to make a move on, it was a witcher. He’s never had much in the way of survival instincts. “What are you doing here?”

“I already told you, trying to drink alone.”

“No, what is a witcher doing in Cintra? I haven’t heard of any monsters lately, unless you count the Nilfgaardians. Wait, is that why you’re here? Are you going to save us all from Nilfgaard?”

The man snorts. “I’m a witcher, not a god. Nothing can save you from Nilfgaard, My business here is my business. Shouldn’t you be singing?”

“Oh, I’m done for the night. My name is Julian Alfred Pankratz.” Jaskier isn’t sure why he introduces himself by his full name; he goes out of his way to avoid it. “My friends call me Jaskier.”

“Alright, Julian.”

Jaskier lets out a surprised burst of laughter, loud enough to draw the attention of the people around them. “So you do have a sense of humor. I wasn’t sure, what with all the brooding.”

“Hm.”

“I bet you have all kinds of interesting stories.” Jaskier siddles up against the wall next to Geralt.

“I do.”

“Care to share any? I’m always looking for inspiration.”

“No.”

“A man of few words. I can respect that. No matter, I have enough words for the both of us.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Jaskier flashes what he hopes is a rakish smile. “What do you think of the Cintran court’s famous hospitality?”

“No one has been stabbed yet, so it’s better than the last feast I attended here.”

Jaskier gives the witcher a moment to elaborate. When no further details seem forthcoming, he leans forward. “You can’t just drop that detail and leave me in suspense. There’s clearly a story there.”

“There is.”

Jaskier sighs. “Should I bother asking?”

“No.”

“Would another tankard of ale loosen your tongue?”

“No.”

Jaskier contemplates the tragedy of standing next to what is certainly the most interesting person he’s ever met, someone who probably has enough stories to inspire a thousand ballads, and not being able to get the man to say three words to him. Before he can feel too sorry for himself, a voice calls, “Geralt!” and Eist strides towards them.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks the Witcher.“Geralt of Rivia?”

“Yes.” Geralt doesn’t look at him.

Jaskier takes stock of the other man and thinks of the stories he’s heard of the Butcher of Blaviken. Geralt does not seem like the type to lust for the blood of innocent civilians or fly into a rage and slaughter entire villages.

“Geralt, if I could have a moment.” Eist doesn’t phrase it as a question, but he spares a warm smile for Jaskier. “Jaskier, I think Calanthe could use another rendition of Fishmonger’s Daughter to raise her spirits.”

Jaskier returns the smile. “Of course, Your Majesty. Geralt, it was a pleasure.”

All he gets in response is a grunt. Regretfully, Jaskier watches the Witcher walk away and vanish into the swirling crowd of nobility.

***

“I need your promise you won’t come back to Cintra,” Eist Tuirseach tells Geralt in the wee hours of the morning, when the feast has ended and he’s leading Geralt out of the castle. The witcher has finally been allowed to change back into his normal clothes, which is a small mercy.

Geralt is many things, but he is not a liar. “If I hear Cirilla is in danger, you know I can’t do that.”

Eist looks at him with a sad expression. “I know.”

Geralt should not be surprised when the iron bars close around him. If anything, he should be surprised that Calanthe hasn’t ordered him outright killed. He shouts after Eist as the queen’s consort walks away. To his credit, Eist seems genuinely regretful, but like Mousesack, he will follow Calanthe until the end of the earth.

Geralt can only sit and wait for what he knows is coming next.

***

“I’ve been stuck here for two days, Mousesack!” Ciri normally at least pretends an interest in her music lessons. Jaskier knows that it’s not out of any affection for music, but the little princess seems to at least enjoy listening to him play. But today, she’s making no effort to pay a lick of attention to the lesson. She’s spent an hour pacing between the window and the couch, bristling with a rage that reminds Jaskier eerily of her grandmother.

“As have the rest of us, Your Highness.” Sitting by the window, Mousesack’s features are furrowed in a frown. The druid never sits in on their lessons; he normally has more important matters to attend to. That he’s here strikes Jaskier as ominous.

Jaskier pretends to be busy tuning his lute. He’s tuned the instrument at least four times in the last quarter of an hour. He doesn’t feel like the conversation between Ciri and Mousesack is for his ears, but he can’t just walk out in the middle of the lesson he’s ostensibly supposed to be in charge of.

“Why hasn’t there been any news, Mousesack?” There’s a whine in Ciri’s voice. Jaskier often forgets how young the princess is; she often projects a dignity that makes her seem older than twelve. Right now, it’s impossible to forget that she’s still a child.

“In war, no news is often good news.” Mousesack’s voice gentles.

“I can’t just sit here anymore!” Ciri flops down in a chair, arms crossed over her chest. Her surly expression reminds Jaskier of their first music lesson together, right after he moved to the palace in the wake of yet another tutor up and quitting.

“Why don’t you like music, princess?” Jaskier asked her on that first meeting.

Ciri looked at him like he was a blithering idiot, another look that she had clearly inherited from her grandmother. Jaskier didn’t take it personally; a lot of people looked at him like he was a blithering idiot. “Because I’m no good at it.”

“You don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it. Do you like listening to music?”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“Good, then that’s a start! Understanding music can give you a more powerful appreciation when you hear a beautiful song.”

“I can’t carry a note to save my life,” Ciri said in the morose tone of someone repeating something she’d been told many times.

“Well, fortunately for you, there are few situations where the ability to carry a note will save your life,” Jaskier said and the princess cracked a smile. Heartened, Jaskier leaned forward. “You know, I’m terrible at playing the harp.”

“Really?” she asked. “But you’re a minstrel.”

“I prefer to call myself a bard. But yes, I’m terrible at playing the harp. Which is strange, because I have all the other string instruments down. Lute, cello, violin. But the harp eludes me. And you know what my favorite instrument is to play?”

“What?”

“The harp. Because when I play it, I do it just for me. There’s no expectation of an audience enjoying it, because like I said, I’m mediocre at best.”

“But you’re good with the lute.”

“I am a master with the lute.”

“Then play something,” she said.

Jaskier could have reminded her that she was the student here and it was her job to play something, but he was finally getting her to thaw, so he began to play a ballad that he’d written during his time at Oxenfurt. It was full of knights, monsters, and a beautiful maiden who got tired of waiting for the knights to save her from the monsters and did it herself. It seemed like just the kind of song a young girl would enjoy. As he watched her face go from guarded to amused to unabashedly delighted, he realized that he and this prickly young princess would get along just fine.

“Can you play something for me, Jaskier?” Today, Ciri is trying to wear that guarded mask she seemed to have perfected a year ago, but she’s too obviously tired, scared, and already grieving the losses she knows she’s about to endure.

“Of course, Your Highness,” Jaskier says and plays that same song that he played for her on their first meeting a year ago. A smile tugs at the corners of Ciri’s lips.

As he plays, there’s a knock at the door. Jaskier falters, but Mousesack waves at him to continue and crosses to the door. It’s Sir Lazlo, one of the queen’s guards. Jaskier watches out of the corner of his eye as Lazlo and Mousesack confer in low voices. Grief flashes across Mousesack’s face, but he quickly smooths over the expression. As Jaskier finishes up his song, Mousesack turns towards them.

“I think that’s enough of a music lesson for today, Jaskier. Thank you.”

Jaskier nods and rises, slipping his lute back in its case. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ciri.”

She smiles thinly at him. “See you tomorrow.”

Jaskier looks at Mousesack and sees the druid close his eyes for an instant. In that moment, he realizes that he probably won’t see Ciri tomorrow. He probably won’t see anyone tomorrow. Swallowing down the sudden tightness in his throat, he gives the princess and Mousesack one last look before taking his leave.

It doesn’t take long for the news of the battle to reach the palace. The ships from Skellige sank in the night. The Cintran army was vastly outnumbered and sustained catastrophic losses. Eist Tuirseach was killed in battle, and Queen Calanthe gravely wounded.

Nilfgaard is here, and Cintra is about to fall.

***


	2. Nilfgaard is nigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sing us a song, bardling,” a low voice says. “Make it good. It will be your last song.”  
> “Oh, no, I don’t really think this is the occasion for a song, do you, gentlemen?” The answering voice is young, terrified, and too familiar.  
> Fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: Suicidal ideation. If this is a trigger for you, please read the end note before proceeding.

Jaskier doesn’t know the name of the guard who hands him the vial of poison. He knows that he’s seen the man around the palace and at Queen Calanthe’s side, but he never thought to get the guard’s name. He thinks about asking for it, but the guard doesn’t linger beyond telling him that Nilfgaard is nigh and handing him the small bottle filled with blue liquid. Somehow, it seems wrong to not know the name of the last person he’ll ever speak to, the last person whose eyes he’ll ever look into.

Jaskier sits on his bed in his tiny room, gazing at the vial in his hands. He’s alone. As a bard, he’s always occupied a strange place in the court hierarchy. He’s not considered a noble here, even if he is of noble blood, but he also isn’t a servant. As a result, he has no one that he truly counts as a friend. There’s no one to hold, no one to provide comfort, no one to just be with as he contemplates the poison. He thinks of poor, dead Eist and all those soldiers who fell in battle. He thinks of the people of Cintra, who are being slaughtered outside the castle walls right now. He thinks of Calanthe, who they say won’t survive the night. And he thinks of Ciri, and hopes that wherever she is, she’s safe. Surely, Calanthe and Eist had a plan to get their granddaughter out of the city.

He starts to uncork the bottle, then pauses. This is the merciful way out, he realizes. He’s heard of the casual brutality the Nilfgaardian forces inflict on the people they conquer. The thought of the things the soldiers will do to him if they find him alive, especially if he’s one of the few still living in the castle, turns his stomach. He doesn’t want to be tormented and humiliated. He doesn’t want to bleed out alone.

Jaskier doesn’t want to die. And that’s the problem. He understands the wisdom of swallowing the poison and allowing himself to pass peacefully, but he can’t summon the will to bring the vial to his lips. There’s so much he still wants to see. When he left Lettenhove eight years ago at the age of sixteen, he swore he would see the entire Continent. Instead, he spent four years at Oxenfurt, two in Novigrad, one in Cidaris, and one in Cintra. All lovely places, but all lacking the adventure he craved during his days in Lettenhove. There’s still so much of the world he hasn’t experienced.

Somewhere, someone screams and Jaskier flinches. There have been screams for hours, accompanied by the faint smell of smoke, but that’s the first cry that sounds like it’s coming from within the palace. Jaskier wonders if it’s the cry of a mother who just watched her child drink poison, or if the Nilfgaardians have breached the castle walls. He’s running out of time to make this decision himself, before a soldier makes it for him.

He brings the bottle to his mouth and rests it against his closed lips. His hands are shaking.

Gods, he wants to live so badly.

Jaskier isn’t sure if it’s cowardice or bravery or silly, childish hope, but he can’t bring himself to part his lips and swallow a mouthful of the poison. He can’t accept that all hope is lost. There are many secret passageways and hidden tunnels in this palace; he’s learned many of them while sneaking out of various lovers’ bedrooms. Nothing good will await him outside the castle walls, but he needs to at least try to survive.

Quickly, he packs a knapsack with some essentials--a few changes of clothes, a cloak, his bag of coins, a small knife. He hesitates before slipping the poison into the bag. He might need it later. For the first time, he regrets his lack of clothing in muted colors. Black or brown seems like the best choices for sneaking out of a city under siege, but the best he can do is a velvet doublet of deep indigo and matching breeches. He puts on his sturdiest boots, grabs his lute, and slips from the room.

He can hear the rumble of male voices, the occasional shout, and doors slamming from down the corridor. Still, the castle is quieter than he would expect a castle under attack to be. He wonders how long he sat there, contemplating the poison. If the lack of screaming and crying is any indication, most of the other inhabitants chose to escape the Nilfgaardians’ wrath. Jaskier’s stomach aches at the thought of all the people at the feast two nights ago. All dead, or soon to be.

He nearly stumbles over something on the ground and looks down to find the guard who handed him the poison earlier. The guard is dead, a gaping wound in his throat and another in his stomach. His guts are spilled across the ground. Jaskier shudders and kneels down to close the man’s eyes. He would say a prayer, but he doesn’t think any gods are listening right now.

Footsteps approach. Jaskier looks around frantically for somewhere to hide, but before he can take a step towards the nearest doorway, two soldiers in Nilfgaardian black and gold round the corner. Jaskier takes a stumbling step backwards and hits something solid. Heart hammering with sudden dread, he turns around and finds himself staring at two more soldiers. He’s surrounded. Behind him, there’s the tell-tale hiss of a blade being drawn from its scabbard.

“Wait, please—” Jaskier begins, raising his hands in surrender.

“Looks like not everyone took the poison.” One of the soldiers grins. There’s a splatter of blood on his face, scattered over his cheek like freckles.

Jaskier would love to be the type of man to face death with his head held high and an expression of stoic dignity. But he lets the soldiers crowd him back against the wall, eyes flicking between their faces and their swords.

“Please, I’m just a bard,” he whispers.

“Are you now?” The soldier with blood on his face taps Jaskier’s lute case with his sword. Jaskier flinches. “Let’s see it then.”

Jaskier stares. “What?”

“I don’t like repeating myself, boy.”

Jaskier fumbles to open the case, hands shaking. He should have taken the poison, he realizes. The soldiers are going to play with him before he dies. He remembers the dead guard’s guts spilled across the ground and wonders if these are the soldiers that killed him. Will Jaskier still be alive when they disembowel him? The thought makes his knees go watery with terror.

“What’s the point of all of this?” he demands, even though he knows it’s not going to make any difference. Nothing will. “What’s the point of leaving scorched earth wherever you conquer? So your emperor can rule over burnt cities and rotting corpses? What’s the fucking point?”

The soldiers crowd closer to him, eyes shining. They’re enjoying this. “Play us a song, bardling,” their leader says. “Better make it good. It will be your last.”

***

Even deep in meditation, Geralt is aware of everything happening outside his cell. He can hear the screams, the pleading, the clash of metal against metal. The scents of blood, shit, and smoke are heavy in the air, accompanied by the sour stench of fear. He can feel the heat of the flames as the city burns. He stays still inside his cell, eyes closed. If any of the Nilfgaardian soldiers have noticed him, they’ve decided to pass him by in favor of more interesting prey.

Geralt’s eyes open at the sound of approaching footsteps, accompanied by labored breathing. His hand shoots out through the bars just as a palace guard runs by. He drags the guard towards him, slamming the man’s head against the bars, once, then twice. Without pausing to feel remorse, he liberates the unconscious guard’s keys from his belt loop and unlocks the door to his cell. He grabs the fallen man’s sword and makes his way towards the palace, stepping over the dead and the dying. The ground is slick with blood and he shakes his head at the waste.

Soldiers try to stop him. There seem to be thousands of them, crawling out of doorways and alleys like ants in a kitchen. Geralt wishes that he had his armor or his potions with him, but he left them with Roach at a stable outside the city. (He can’t think about Roach right now. He hopes that she’ll be safe outside Cintra, that the Nilfgaardians will have overlooked the small villages dotting the countryside.) Most of his weapons were confiscated; all he has is the silver dagger he managed to hide in his boot and the sword he stole from the guard.

His hands and sword are slick with blood and he’s sporting a shallow wound in his side by the time he makes it into the castle. No one bars his entry. There are no guards left alive. The inside of the castle is too quiet. There should be running, screaming, and crying. Swallowing back his sense of unease, he makes his way through the darkened corridors. The castle is heavy with the stench of death. Besides the occasional Nilfgaardian soldier, there are only corpses left.

He makes his way to the royal chambers. If Cirilla is still there, she will almost certainly already be dead, but he needs to know. All he finds are pillaging soldiers. After he’s killed most of them, he pins a young man to the wall. The soldier is hardly more than a boy, with the barest hint of facial hair and pudgy cheeks.

“Tell me what I want to know, and you’ll live,” Geralt presses his stolen sword to the soldier’s chest.

The boy’s eyes glow feverishly. “I am already saved.”

Slowly, Geralt sinks his blade into the soldier’s chest. “Where is Cirilla?”

The soldier bares his teeth into a bloody smile. “There’s no one left.”

He begins to pray, but Geralt silences him by slitting his throat. He takes one look around the royal chambers, but there’s no one left. Calanthe, Eist, and Cirilla are all gone. Mousesack is gone. If Cirilla is still alive, she’s no longer in the castle. Wouldn’t he know if his child surprise were dead? They’re linked by destiny, after all. Or so people keep telling him.

He’s rounding a corner when he hears a scuffle and a small whimper. He pauses, hand clenched tighter around the hilt of his sword.

“Sing us a song, bardling,” a low voice says. “Make it good. It will be your last song.”

“Oh, no, I don’t really think this is the occasion for a song, do you, gentlemen?” The answering voice is young, terrified, and too familiar.

Fuck.

There’s a smack of flesh against flesh and a grunt, then the frightened voice continues, “Okay, you want a song? What are we in the mood for? A ballad? A battle hymn? Maybe a funeral dirge, given the death and destruction you’ve left in your wake tonight?”

Another smack. Another yelp.

“Just sing something, boy. Or we’ll find another way to make you sing.”

Geralt steps around the corner and is unsurprised by what he sees. The bard from the feast is cowering against the wall and clutching his lute to his chest. He’s surrounded by four Nilfgaardian soldiers. The bard has the look of a hunted animal; Geralt can hear the rapid hammering of his heartbeat and smell his fear from here. Geralt watches as the bard looks into the faces of each of his attackers, searching for mercy there. When he doesn’t find it, Geralt sees him shrink further into himself.

The soldiers are toying with him. They could cut him down, like they have so many, but they’re having fun. Anger crawls up Geralt’s throat.

“We don’t have all night,” the soldier standing directly in front of the bard barks. “And neither do you.”

The bard--Jaskier, Geralt remembers--makes a little choking noise and begins to strum on his lute, _“Oh fishmonger, oh fishmonger…”_

It must not be the right song choice, because one of the soldiers presses his blade against Jaskier’s throat and the bard’s voice falters. Geralt should move on. His priority needs to be Cirilla right now. She’s somewhere in this city and in terrible danger. If she gets killed or captured, Geralt will have failed. There isn’t the time to save every innocent in Cintra.

“Please!” The bard’s voice is ragged with desperation. Despite himself, Geralt looks up and finds that Jaskier is staring right at him. He isn’t pleading with the soldiers for mercy; he’s pleading with Geralt for help.

Geralt is many things, but he isn’t cruel, and it would be cruel to turn away from the bard now. Hoisting his sword, Geralt attacks. The first soldier, the one with his blade to Jaskier’s throat, dies quickly. He never sees Geralt coming and the witcher separates his head from his body with ease. The second turns and Geralt runs him through. The third is ready for him. His sword comes up to meet Geralt’s. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the fourth soldier rushing at him.

Geralt is faster than any mortal man, but fighting off two men with only one sword is still challenging. One of them gets a lucky hit, a blade grazing Geralt’s side, and Geralt curses his own lack of armor. Emboldened, the soldier presses towards him, trying to force Geralt towards his fellow. The soldier cries out and turns, showing Geralt the blade sticking out of his lower back. The bard stands behind the soldier, eyes wide as the man he just stabbed raises his sword to retaliate.

Geralt runs the soldier through before he gets the chance, then turns and parries the remaining soldier’s blow. He brings the hilt of his sword up into the man’s gut. As the soldier gasps, he knocks his sword out of his hand and slams him against the wall.

“Where’s Princess Cirilla?” he demands.

The soldier’s face is splattered with blood. “What would a witcher want with a little princess? Or are the stories they tell about you true?”

“Some of them,” Geralt says. “I’m not going to ask again.”

“What makes you think I’m going to answer the questions of an abomination?”

Geralt sinks his sword into the soldier’s chest, not deep enough to pierce the heart, but deep enough to hurt like a bitch. “Because you can die fast, or you can die slow. Now, have you seen the princess?”

The soldier gasps in pain. “You fucker.”

Geralt buries the sword in a bit deeper. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

“I haven’t seen her!” Blood stains the soldier’s lips. “But Cahir told us that none of us were to harm her and that if we found her, we were to bring her to him straight away.”

“Who is Cahir?”

“Sir Cahir, the Black Knight. You can’t miss him. Pretentious ass wears a feather on his helmet, like it’s a maiden’s bonnet.”

“And where can I find him?”

The soldier spits in his face, then lunges forward, impaling himself deeper on Geralt’s sword. With a muttered curse, Geralt yanks his sword out of the corpse and turns to the bard. The younger man is staring at the soldiers' bodies, swaying a bit. Geralt yanks Jaskier’s knife out of the back of the soldier he stabbed and hands it to the bard, hilt first.

“You’ll need this,” he tells Jaskier.

The bard looks at him with wide, shocked eyes, then doubles over and vomits.

***

Ciri scrambles away from the knight in the winged helmet on her hands and knees, blinded by terror. She can feel him behind her, gaining on her. She can still smell the coppery tang of Lazlo’s blood and the smoke from the burning city.

The knight is almost upon her.

Ciri turns and screams in his face, half-defiant, half-terrified. The earth falls away between them.

***

Jaskier has barely finished retching when he hears the witcher growl, “We need to go.”

“Melitele’s tits.” Jaskier looks up at Geralt with watery eyes. “How did… you killed all of them by yourself!”

Geralt looks puzzled. “There were only four of them.”

“Only four.” Jaskier lets out an incredulous little laugh. His neck stings and when he touches it, his fingers come away damp with blood. “Thank you. You saved my life.”

“Hm.” Geralt looks uncomfortable at the gratitude.

“I owe you my life.” Jaskier has to fight the urge to sink to the ground and have a good cry. Now is not the time.

“Please don’t try and repay me. It never goes well when people try to repay me.”

Jaskier shakes his head, trying to clear his head. They’re still in a palace full of Nilfgaardian soldiers and Ciri is out there somewhere, with someone named Cahir looking for her. “I know a tunnel out of the palace.”

“Then lead the way.”

Later, Jaskier’s memories of getting out of the palace and the city will be a blur. He recognizes it as shock. He knows that there are more soldiers, each effortlessly dispatched by Geralt. He knows that he steps over the bodies of acquaintances and strangers alike. He knows that he sees Queen Calanthe’s body on the ground outside the palace and vomits again, eventually having to be dragged away by Geralt. He knows that every soldier Geralt takes the time to question tells Geralt the same thing: they don’t know where Ciri is, but Sir Cahir is looking for her.

It’s not until they’re well outside the city that Jaskier takes a moment to look back. From a distance, Cintra is a wall of fire. The city skyline is a mere shadow among the flames, most of the spires and towers already reduced to cinders. It’s almost beautiful, in a horrifying way, and Jaskier can’t tear his eyes away.

“We need to keep moving,” the witcher says behind him. “Unless you want to wait here until the Nilfgaardians are done with the city and start to move out.”

Jaskier just shakes his head. Now that his shock is wearing off, the events of tonight are starting to hit him and he’s feeling a bit shaky. He almost died while singing _Fishmonger’s Daughter_. The only reason he’s alive is this cantankerous witcher who saved his life and then fought their way out of the city, for reasons Jaskier can’t even comprehend.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is rough. “Come on.”

Jaskier quickly wipes his eyes before turning and following Geralt. They’re heading into the woods, which makes Jaskier nervous. He’s heard enough stories of monsters--human and otherwise--to be wary of wandering the woods at night. Though he supposes if he has to do it, it may as well be with a witcher at his side.

“Why are you looking for Ciri?” he asks after a long silence, mostly to distract himself from the hooting noise that might be an owl, or a man-eating monster that’s going to carry him away and scoop out his innards.

“She’s my responsibility.”

“Did the queen hire you to protect her?”

“No.”

“Do you know her?”

“I don’t.”

“Then what do you want with her?” Jaskier can’t stop the suspicion that creeps into his voice. Geralt seems to be an honorable man so far, but Ciri is a vulnerable young girl alone in the world, a prime target for fortune hunters, and worse.

Geralt grumbles something under his breath. “Twelve years ago, I saved her father’s life and he offered me the Law of Surprise as a reward. He didn’t realize that Pavetta was pregnant at the time.”

Jaskier blinks. “Ciri is a child surprise?”

“Yes. Which is why I have to find her before this Cahir.” Geralt stiffens. “Jaskier, get down.”

“What?”

Instead of elaborating, Geralt slams him to the ground just as hoofbeats sound from nearby. Jaskier stiffens as a male voice with a Nilfgaardian accent calls, “Cirilla! Princess Cirilla!”

The voice is joined by more hoofbeats and more voices calling for Ciri. Jaskier lies very still on the ground, remembering the kiss of a blade at his throat and the sneering soldier ordering him to sing. The length of Geralt’s body is pressed up against his side and Jaskier tries to take solace in the solidness of the witcher. If anyone can go up against a squadron of Nilfgaardian soldiers and survive, it’s Geralt. Still, Jaskier can’t stop himself from flinching when a horse thunders through the bushes not ten paces from their hiding spot.

Finally, the sounds die away. Jaskier doesn’t move until Geralt mutters, “They’re gone.”

Jaskier stands on shaking legs. He notices Geralt wince as he climbs to his own feet. “Are you alright?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt grunts, which might be a “yes.” Or a “no.” Or a “fuck off.” Jaskier doesn’t know. “I need to get to my horse. I left her with my gear a few villages over. If we’re quick, we’ll make it by dawn.”

The thought of walking until dawn is painful, but Jaskier has a feeling that complaining will get him left in the woods. “And then what?”

“The village where I left Roach was small, but it probably has an inn where you can stay.”

“Wait, what? You’re going to leave me?” Jaskier doesn’t know why that offends him so much. He’s only known Geralt for a couple of days.

“You’ll only slow me down.”

“That’s not true! I’ve spent time on the road, Geralt. I can hold my own in a fight, clearly.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier scrambles to pick up his pace so he can walk besides the witcher. “Now that Nilfgaard’s taken Cintra, the rest of the north will fall. Nowhere is going to be safe. I won’t survive on my own!”

“Ciri is my only priority right now.”

Jaskier can feel his panic rising. Left to his own devices, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he’s killed by bandits or something large and hungry. “Ciri knows me! She trusts me. If you find her, do you really think she’ll willingly go with a strange, sword-wielding man who she’s never met before?”

Geralt stops in his tracks, so abruptly that Jaskier almost runs into him.

“Look, I’m just going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re not great with children.” Jaskier is panting from the exertion of keeping up with Geralt. Gods, this is embarrassing.

“I’m fine with children. I stay away from them.”

“That’s not encouraging at all. Ciri was raised by the Lioness of Cintra. She’s smart, crafty, and doesn’t suffer fools gladly. You’re not going to be able to walk up to her and say, ‘come with me, little girl, we’re bound together by destiny—’”

“I wouldn’t say that to her.”

“--And expect that she’s just going to come with you. I can help you find her. Please, let me help you. I care about Ciri. I want to save her.”

The witcher snorts. “You want to save your own skin.”

“Yes, that too. Can you blame me for wanting to live?” Jaskier’s voice cracks.

Geralt studies him for a long moment. The witcher’s yellow eyes are disconcertingly bright in the darkness, like a wolf’s. “If you slow me down, I’ll leave you behind.”

“Of course.”

“If you draw undue attention to us, I’ll leave you behind.”

“I promise you, all the attention I draw is entirely due.”

“And if it comes down to you or Ciri, I’ll leave you behind.”

Jaskier smiles up at him. “I could say the same to you.”

Geralt grunts. “Come on. Remember what I said about slowing me down.”

Groaning, Jaskier follows him.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: This chapter deals with the siege of Cintra, including the poison that's distributed to the people inside the palace. Jaskier spends a scene contemplating whether or not to take the poison. If this is something you'd rather skip, you can start reading at the paragraph that starts, "Quickly, he packs a knapsack."
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter should be up sometime next week. I haven't decided on a set update schedule for this one yet, since I'm working on another multichapter fic and just started drafting the next installment in my Where There's a Witcher series (what better way to spend quarantine than starting a bunch of new projects?)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!


	3. what happened to the Butcher?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me about yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier says around a mouthful of what might be venison, though it’s too overcooked to tell for sure.  
> “Not much to tell.”  
> “I doubt that. You’re what, a hundred years old? Two hundred? I’d say there’s plenty to tell.”  
> “You’re not going to get a ballad out of me, bard, so don’t bother.”  
> “See, that sounded like a challenge. I like those.”

They don’t reach the village by dawn; the sun is high in the sky by the time Geralt strides into town, with Jaskier limping along behind him. The only bright spot is that the bard is too exhausted and out of breath to talk. Geralt thinks of the words he uttered the night before: _“If you slow me down, I’ll leave you behind.”_ He should have left Jaskier behind hours ago. All he has to do is get on Roach and ride away, and the bard will become someone else’s problem. Someone who doesn’t have a princess to find and save.

The problem is that Geralt knows what will happen if he leaves Jaskier. He’s seen what happens to men like this when they wander the world alone. He’s cleaned up many of their corpses. They stop for a drink of water and get dragged under by a drowner. They have their throats slit in their sleep by a bandit. They walk through the wrong field and get bitten by a ghoul. The world is a cruel place and this bard is not equipped to survive it.

Which isn’t Geralt’s problem. But no matter how many times he tells himself that, he can’t bring himself to abandon the kid.

 _“Gone soft in your old age.”_ It’s Yennefer’s voice in his ear, light and teasing. It’s been a good decade since he last saw her, but his memory of the sorceress is so vivid that he has to check over his shoulder to make sure she’s not actually standing there. _“What happened to the Butcher of Blaviken?”_

But that’s wrong. Yennefer would never call him the Butcher. They said a lot of cruel things to each other as their relationship soured, but she never crossed that line. Geralt shakes the memory away.

He’s relieved to find the village where he left Roach untouched by the Nilfgaardian troops and his horse contentedly harassing a stablehand. She snorts softly when she sees Geralt and bumps his head with her nose, a reproach for leaving her alone for a whole three days. He leans against her, relieved beyond words to see her alright. It was a hard decision to leave her behind when he went to Cintra, but he knew if he were still there when the Nilfgaardians arrived, she could be caught in the crossfire.

“What a beauty.” Jaskier reaches a hand out to the horse.

“Don’t touch Roach,” Geralt growls.

The bard doesn’t retreat. “It’s okay, animals love—”

Roach snaps at his fingers. It’s just a warning; had she meant harm, there would be blood and screaming. As it is, Jaskier yelps and withdraws his hand quickly.

“Not this one,” Geralt says.

“Stunning and surly. I can’t imagine who she takes after.” At Geralt’s scowl, Jaskier smiles innocently and proceeds to turn to Roach and speak at length about her beauty, intelligence, and good breeding. 

Geralt shakes his head in dismay. “You can’t sweet talk a horse. She’s not a tavern wench.”

“Anyone can be sweet talked. Isn’t that right, my lovely? What is this gorgeous creature’s name?”

“Roach.”

“What kind of name is Roach?”

“Hers.”

“Well, mark my words, Roach and I will be the best of friends by the end of the week.”

Geralt hopes to any gods that may be listening that Jaskier isn’t still traveling with them by the end of the week. “She doesn’t like people.”

“She likes you.”

“I’m not people. I’ve had her for twenty years.”

“Twenty years?” Jaskier eyes Roach doubtfully. “She seems awfully spry.”

“Think she might have some kelpie in her. She loves the water.” Geralt pats Roach’s saddle bags. “We can fit your things in here. I need to go pay the innkeeper for the use of his stables, then we can be on our way.”

“Geralt.” Jaskier eyes the shabby inn appraisingly. “Does this establishment serve breakfast?”

“Probably.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but with the impending death and all, I didn’t eat much yesterday. Or the day before that. Actually, the last time I had a real meal was the feast. I’m rather famished.”

“Remember what I said about slowing me down?”

“Not at all. You’ve only repeated it a dozen times since last night. Geralt, I’ll definitely slow you down if I faint from hunger.”

“We’ll hunt tonight.”

“Tonight?” Jaskier squawks loud enough that Roach’s ears twitch in annoyance. Geralt sympathizes with the horse. “Tonight is very far away. And I’m not much of a hunter. I really don’t like to think about where my food comes from, actually. ”

Geralt decides not to dignify that with a response. Instead, he strides into the inn, ignoring Jaskier’s yapping about how breakfast will be quick and he’ll even pay and will Geralt just stop and listen to him already?

The innkeeper is surprisingly chatty, given that he could barely hide his fear and disdain the last time they met. “You were in the city, were you not, witcher?” the man asks.

“I was.”

“Heard it was a bloodbath. Those Nilfgaardian fucks rode through and slaughtered everyone.”

“They did.” Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Jaskier flinch.

“Bastards.” The innkeeper spits. “Not shedding any tears over old Calanthe, of course.”

Geralt grunts. “If you knew anyone in the city, mourn them. There weren’t many survivors.”

“Winter hasn’t hit yet. Those southern shits will be frozen to death the first real snowfall, mark my words.”

Geralt makes a noncommittal noise.

“Is that all you’ll be needing?” the innkeeper asks hopefully.

Geralt looks over at Jaskier. The younger man is staring at the ground, wearing the glassy-eyed expression of someone reliving something awful. The shadows under his eyes are almost the same color as his deep blue doublet. He somehow looks both years older than he did at the feast and so much younger.

Geralt sighs. “How much for two breakfasts?”

What happened to the Butcher, indeed?

***

Ciri never expected to know what rat tasted like. It’s gamey, but not as unpleasant as she was expecting, and stringy, but that may have been because the poor thing was half-starved when the boy sitting across from her killed it. She studies the boy over the rat leg she’s nibbling on. He doesn’t look that much older than her, maybe fourteen. He’s thin and gawky, with brown skin and kind eyes. He’s hardly said two words to her since he found her in the woods and warned her away from eating poisoned berries; she thought he was mute at first.

“I’m Ciri,” she says, then immediately regrets it. She can’t tell people her real name, not when Nilfgaardian soldiers have been shouting for her for hours.

The boy smiles shyly at her. If he recognizes the name, he doesn’t show it. “Dara.”

***

It’s far from the best breakfast Jaskier has ever had--the meat is chewy, the beans are flavorless, and the bread is stale--but he devours it without pausing for breath. He didn’t realize just how hungry he was until there was a plate of food in front of him and now the pit in his stomach seems bottomless. He shovels food into his mouth without concern for good manners.

“Tell me about yourself, Geralt,” Jaskier says around a mouthful of what might be venison, though it’s too overcooked to tell for sure.

“Not much to tell.”

“I doubt that. You’re what, a hundred years old? Two hundred? I’d say there’s plenty to tell.”

“You’re not going to get a ballad out of me, bard, so don’t bother.”

“See, that sounded like a challenge. I like those.” Jaskier takes a bite of his bread and grins in what he hopes is a rakish fashion. If he keeps talking, it won’t give him time to think about burning buildings, bodies cluttering the streets, a blade at his throat, the hideous feeling of his own knife sinking through skin and muscle. It won’t give him time to think about all the people he knew in Cintra, and how they’re almost certainly dead. It won’t give him time to think about how close he came to joining them.

“Challenge yourself to shut up.”

“I like challenges I can win.” Jaskier notices the three men at the next table eyeing Geralt with bald disdain and muttering among themselves. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but he has a good idea. “So, ‘what’s your story, Jaskier?’ I hear you ask.”

“I didn’t.”

“No, you must have, I distinctly heard it. I come from Lettenhove.”

“You’re the viscount’s son. Mousesack said.”

Jaskier feels a pang at the thought of Mousesack. He wishes he had gotten to know the druid better. He always liked the man, though all they had in common was their fondness for Ciri. “So you were asking around about me? Geralt, you do care.”

“You were talking to Ciri. I was trying to figure out whether I needed to stab you.”

“That makes more sense. Technically, I’m the heir, unless my father has managed to put a son into his fourth wife. As soon as that happens, I imagine I’ll be disinherited and he’ll tell everyone I died of the plague in some backwater village.”

“Hm.”

“I graduated from Oxenfurt. Studied the seven liberal arts.”

“Sounds like seven more liberal arts than there needs to be.”

“Oh, you sound like my father, Geralt. How charming. I graduated top of my class, I’ll have you know. Lived in Novigrad for two years, did the starving bard thing, singing in taverns and at wedding feasts and whatnot, until I got a job at a duke’s court in Cidaris. Sadly, I had to leave there in quite a hurry after hardly a year—”

“Fucked the duke’s wife?”

“And his sister. And his mother. And the duke himself. Not great for job security, apparently.” Jaskier looks sadly down at his empty plate. Despite the food’s mediocrity, he could eat three more plates of it.

“Hm.”

“But it all worked out, because I was hired to be Cintra’s court bard and Ciri’s music tutor.” Jaskier hopefully picks at a couple of crumbs of bread left on his plate. “And that, Geralt, is how you tell someone your backstory.”

“You’re what, eighteen? I have a lot more backstory.”

“I’m twenty-four, thank you.”

Geralt grunts and drops his piece of bread on Jaskier’s plate. “Not that hungry,” he says by way of explanation.

“You don’t have to—”

“It’s yours.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of this man, who saved his life and is willing to give him the food off his plate, but also keeps threatening to abandon him in the wilderness. He’s becoming increasingly convinced that the threats are an act. Or at least, he hopes they are.

He polishes off the bread in three bites, then asks, “I’m curious, why are you just claiming your child surprise now? Ciri is twelve.”

Geralt shrugs. “I was told to never return to Cintra.”

“And you listened?”

“Calanthe was a persuasive woman.”

“But why now?” Jaskier asks.

“Because of Nilfgaard. Everyone knew they were coming for Cintra. They’ve been making their way north for a year. I wanted to get Ciri out of the city before they attacked, but Calanthe wouldn’t let me leave with her the other night.”

“Was that why you were at the feast?”

Geralt nods.

Jaskier leans forward. He’s aware of the men behind Geralt getting more empathic in their dirty looks and mutterings. “So, what’s the plan?”

“What plan?” Geralt asks.

“The plan to heroically rescue Ciri, of course.” The thing Jaskier has been trying his hardest not to think about is where Ciri is right now, if she’s alone, if she’s hurt, if she saw her grandmother’s fall from the palace window. She may have escaped the siege, but there are a lot of horrible things that can happen to a twelve year old girl, especially a sheltered one who grew up in a palace.

“We have to find her first.”

“And how will we do that?” Jaskier asks.

“There will be survivors,” Geralt says. “Not many, but some people will have escaped the city. There will be refugee camps. She might be there. And if she isn’t, someone may have seen her.”

“And what if they haven’t?”

“I’ll keep looking until I find her.”

“ _We_ will keep looking until _we_ find her,” Jaskier corrects him.

Geralt looks like he has something grumpy to say in response, but a gruff voice interrupts him. “You and your friend are finished with your meals, witcher. Time for you to move on.”

Jaskier looks up and sees the three men who were glaring at them from the next table now gathered around them. They’re all tall and broad, farmers from the looks of them, and Jaskier is palpably reminded of being surrounded by sword-wielding soldiers. He has to force himself not to shrink back.

“We’re finishing our ale,” Geralt says mildly. “Then we’ll be on our way.”

“No, you’ll be on your way now, whoreson.” The largest of the men leans into Geralt’s space.

Geralt meets his gaze, unimpressed. If he stood up, he would dwarf the bastard, but he stays seated. “Our ale will be finished faster if you leave us in peace.”

“I have family in Blaviken,” the loudmouth snarls. “I know who you are, Butcher.”

“Hm.”

“Nothing to say?”

“No.”

Geralt’s lack of reaction seems to make the man angrier. A glob of spit lands on the witcher’s face. “The likes of you don’t belong here, mutant.”

 _Humans,_ Jaskier thinks in disgust, and is immediately surprised at himself. He tends to forget that he’s not entirely human. He’s not old enough to have noticed the longevity his elven blood has granted him and it’s not like he knows any of his relatives on his mother’s side. He never knew his mother; he’s not even sure how much elf blood she had in her. 

“I’m not going to ask again.” The man makes to grab the front of Geralt’s shirt, but Jaskier has seen enough. He leaps to his feet and slams his tankard of ale down on top of the man’s head. The tankard is made of cheap tin, not heavy enough to make much of an impression, but the man seems more surprised than anything when ale splashes all over his face. Jaskier braces himself, knowing it’s only a matter of time before the shock turns to rage and he gets the shit kicked out of him.

One of the man’s friends rounds on him and Jaskier just has time to hope that they don’t go for the face before Geralt is between him and the men. He makes a complicated little sign in the air and the three men are forced back by a wall of magic. Jaskier gapes at him as Geralt grabs him by the scruff of the shirt and drags him out of the tavern.

“You can do magic too?” he demands. “You’re built like a mountain god, have inhuman strength, and you have magic? How is that fair?”

“Get on the horse,” Geralt growls.

“I thought you said—”

“Get on the damn horse, Jaskier.”

“Since you asked so nicely.” Jaskier lets Geralt boost him onto the horse’s back. The witcher swings himself up behind Jaskier, reaching around to grab onto Roach’s reins, and they’re off.

“What the fuck was that?” Geralt growls in his ear.

Jaskier is having trouble concentrating on anything besides the very muscular chest pressed against his back and the arms wrapped around him, even if after a night on the road and the two before that in a cell, Geralt is rather… fragrant. “They were being pricks.”

“So you started a fight?”

“They had already started the fight. A punch was getting thrown, whether or not I intervened. You saved me. I was just returning the favor.”

“Returning the—” Geralt scoffs. “I don’t need my honor protected. And I don’t need to be saved. Don’t pull shit like that ever again.”

“So next time, I should just let them talk to you like that? I should let them spit at you?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

“Then next time, I’ll let you get your neck snapped like a twig.”

“You know, a thank you would suffice.”

“Say another word, and I’m riding back to town and leaving you there.”

Jaskier doesn’t say another word.

At least, not for a few minutes.

***

“They call you the Butcher of Blaviken. Why?”

Geralt pauses in the middle of sharpening his blade. It’s late and they’ve stopped to make camp. Jaskier is curled up on the ground near the fire, wrapped in a blanket and shivering like it’s the dead of winter. Geralt thought the bard was asleep until he spoke; his breathing was deep and even and his heartbeat was slow.

“Because I butchered people in Blakiven,” Geralt says. “The common folk aren’t as clever with their nicknames as bards.”

“But surely you have more momentous deeds to your name. Battles fought, monsters slain, villages saved, damsels bedded.”

“Hm.”

“You don’t seem like a butcher, that’s all.”

Geralt snorts.

“I’m serious.” Jaskier yawns. “I can’t see you killing anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

Geralt can tell the bard is going to press the issue, but an unearthly shriek rends the night air and Jaskier sits straight up, eyes huge.

“Oh gods, what was that?” he demands. “A griffin? A manitcore? Oh fuck, a fiend?”

“A fox.” Geralt can feel the corners of his lips fighting to form a smile. “Uness a sorcerer comes along and turns you into a rabbit, you’re safe.”

Jaskier looks no less alarmed. “Does that happen often?”

“I thought you were a hardened traveler.”

“I never claimed to be hardened. But I’ve traveled. Just, in caravans with tents and a lot of armed guards.”

“You’re safer with me than with a platoon of armed guards.”

“You’re probably right.” Jaskier settles back down.

They fall into silence. The only sound is of the fire crackling and the scrape of Geralt’s sword against stone. In the distance, another animal shrieks and Jaskier only flinches a little.

“People want me to be a monster, not a hero,” Geralt says after several long moments. “That’s why they still call me the Butcher. If I’m a hero, they have to throw celebrations in my honor. They have to pay me what my services are worth and thank me publicly. If I’m a monster, I can take care of their problem in the dead of night. They can pay me a pittance first thing in the morning and expect me out of town before the sun rises. People only want heroes in their ballads. Real life heroes are inconvenient.”

His only reply is a soft snort. Jaskier has fallen fast asleep. Just as well, Geralt thinks as he sets aside his sword and settles down on his bedroll to meditate. No one likes a contemplative witcher. He closes his eyes and deepens his breathing, allowing his heartbeat to slow to a near stop. It’s not sleep; he’s still acutely aware of everything happening in the forest surrounding their camp. Still, it will allow him to clear his mind of the last few days. He’ll need all his focus if he’s going to track down Princess Cirilla.

A chattering noise jolts him out of his meditation and he cracks one eye open. Jaskier is shivering so hard that he’s teeth are chattering. It’s not even deep winter yet; there’s hardly a dusting of snow on the ground. With a disgusted grumble, Geralt tries to sink back down into the depths of his own mind. Jaskier whimpers and the sharp scent of fear suddenly fills the air. Geralt realizes that the shivering isn’t purely from the cold. The bard tries to act unaffected by the events of the night before, but Geralt knows it’s sheer bravado. Nightmares are to be expected.

Geralt tries to ignore the pathetic noises Jaskier is making.

It doesn’t work.

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbles and pulls the sleeping bard towards him. Jaskier doesn’t wake--this kid really wouldn’t survive in the wild by himself--as Geralt drags him onto his bedroll. Geralt settles himself down next to Jaskier, hoping his body heat will warm the human up. Jaskier rolls over, pressing the length of his body against Geralt’s, and the witcher freezes. Keeping Jaskier warm seemed less... intimate when the bard was turned away from him. Jaskier’s face is slack in sleep. He would look peaceful, if not for his eyes’ frantic motion under the thin membrane of his eyelids. Jaskier shifts closer to him and makes a small snuffling noise in his sleep.

Geralt is tempted to shove Jaskier away, reclaim his bedroll, and let the bard chatter and whimper the night away. But Jaskier’s shivering is already calming, whether from Geralt’s body heat or the reassurance of having someone next to him. Geralt sighs. He doesn’t plan on sleeping anyway; he’ll move before Jaskier wakes and the bard will never know about this. He closes his eyes and enjoys the blessed silence.

Until Jaskier starts to snore.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it only took three chapters for gratuitous huddling for warmth to happen, because I have no impulse control.
> 
> I'm going to try for a weekly update schedule from now on. Updates will happen every Thursday. This is subject to change, as my work from home schedule keeps switching around. Hope you're all taking care of yourselves!


	4. he can't be bleat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jaskier, shut up. Now.” Geralt pulls Roach to a halt. Every muscle in his body is tense.  
> “What’s wrong?” Jaskier whispers.  
> “Horses. A lot of them. Coming this way.”  
> Jaskier’s heart stutters with fear. “Nilfgaardians?”  
> “Nilfgaardians aren’t the only dangers on these roads.” Geralt draws his sword.  
> “Bandits?”  
> “Let’s hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't read the books, the Scoia’tael are a band of elven bandits who appear in _The Time of Contempt_ and attack human travelers. For the purpose of this story, I've kind of mashed up the elves from Episode 2 with the Scoia'tael. It's nowhere near canon-compliant, but that's why this is an AU.

For the second time in as many days, Ciri is surrounded by death. The camp of Cintran refugees is on fire as people scream and trample each other in their desperation to get away from the Nilfgaardians’ blades. Soldiers on horseback gallop through the camp, butchering everyone who gets within reach. Ciri is watching her people die around her all over again. She runs through the burning tents in a blind panic, stumbling over bodies as she goes. Somehow, this is worse than the fall of Cintra, because these people have survived one atrocity already. They were supposed to be safe now. Nilfgaard has already conquered them, and killed their queen, what else could they want?

 _”You,”_ a nasty little voice whispers in Ciri’s head, but that can’t be right. Why kill all these people just to get to her?

Someone seizes her by the arm and spins her around. Ciri starts to scream, but a hand claps over her mouth. It’s Dara, the flames reflecting in his terrified dark eyes. He releases her mouth and presses a finger to his own lips, then drags her away. Ciri runs after him, feeling the heat of the fire on her back and hearing the screams of her people being butchered. She can’t bring herself to look back.

***

When Jaskier wakes up, he’s curled up on Geralt’s bedroll, alone and wrapped in not just the blanket he fell asleep with, but Geralt’s cloak. Blearily, he looks around for Geralt. For an instant, he thinks the witcher has left him, but then he sees Geralt standing by Roach. Geralt’s head is bent towards Roach and Jaskier is fairly certain he’s murmuring to his horse. His expression is soft in a way Jaskier isn't accustomed to. Jaskier watches them for a moment, until Geralt looks up and makes eye contact with Jaskier. The witcher immediately straightens, his face settling back into its usual surly lines.

“What’s Roach’s secret?” Jaskier asks. “That’s the most words I’ve seen you string together so far.”

“She lets me get a word in edgewise.”

“Geralt, that’s hurtful. I’m an excellent conversationalist.” Jaskier stretches, his body protesting the movement. He’s not made for sleeping on the ground. “Thanks for the use of your bedroll. I was freezing last night.”

“Hm.”

“Where did you sleep?” If they shared a bedroll, Jaskier’s greatest regret in life will be that he slept through it.

“I didn’t. We’re going to need to get you a bedroll and a real cloak the next town we stop in. And real boots.”

“What’s wrong with these boots?” Jaskier asks.

“What isn’t wrong with those boots?” Geralt rolls his eyes at the resultant indignant squawk. “Get up. We need to get moving.”

Jaskier could use another hour or five of sleep--the sun has barely risen--but he complies. “Where to today?”

“Going to look for Ciri.”

“So, we just wander around and hope we stumble across a refugee camp? Surely witchers have a better method of tracking people.”

“If you have a better plan, let’s hear it.”

“I’m a humble bard, not a strategist.”

“Clearly.”

Muttering to himself, Jaskier helps Geralt pack up the camp and they set off into the woods. There’s far too much in the way of woodlands in this part of the Continent, he decides. When this is all over, he’ll go back to Novigrad, where there’s nary a tree to be found.

They walk for a long time before they find a road. They walk for a long time after they find the road. Jaskier tries to fill the time with conversation, but with Geralt’s responses being nothing but the occasional grunt, even he eventually runs out of things to talk about. Soon, the only sounds are Roach’s hooves against the ground and Jaskier’s own labored breathing.

“Remind me why I can’t ride the horse?” Jaskier asks, when it feels like they’ve been walking for several years and his feet are screaming in pain.

“She’s only accustomed to one rider.”

“But I’ve been walking all day, Geralt.”

“It’s not even noon.”

“No, it must be near nightfall.”

“Not even close.”

Jaskier throws back his head and groans.

“Be quiet,” Geralt says sharply.

Jaskier blinks at the sudden forcefulness in the Witcher’s voice. “Geralt, I’m just saying, these blisters could get infected and I could die.”

“Jaskier, shut up. Now.” Geralt pulls Roach to a halt. Every muscle in his body is tense.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier whispers.

“Horses. A lot of them. Coming this way.”

Jaskier’s heart stutters with fear. “Nilfgaardians?”

“Nilfgaardians aren’t the only dangers on these roads.” Geralt draws his sword.

“Bandits?”

“Let’s hope.”

Jaskier is about to ask why the hell they would hope for bandits when something whistles by his ear. He looks around to see an arrow embedded in a tree behind him.

“Get down!” Geralt shouts and lunges off Roach’s back towards Jaskier. Another arrow flies over their heads as Geralt tackles Jaskier to the ground. Jaskier’s head hits something hard, sending a blinding jolt of pain through his skull. The world spins and everything goes dark.

***

When Jaskier comes to, his head is killing him and his mouth tastes bitter and coppery. Eyes closed, he tries to shift into a more comfortable position, but he can’t move. His back is pressed up against something hard and unyielding and his arms are pinned behind his back. Jaskier opens his eyes and lucidity comes rushing back to him. He’s tied up on the ground, bound back-to-back with Geralt with a length of rope. And they’re surrounded by elves. None of the elves are paying any attention to them at the moment; they’re busy rifling through Roach’s saddle bags and talking among themselves. There are six of them, four men and two women. All wear fur hats with squirrel tails.

Jaskier’s heart plummets. He’s heard of the Scoia’tael, a band of elven rebels who have been causing havoc on the roads by slaughtering messengers, ambushing merchant caravans, and robbing and killing travelers. They leave no prisoners. Frantically, he tries to tug at the ropes around his wrists, but whoever tied the knots did a damned good job.

“Leave it,” Geralt says in a low voice. “I’ve already tried.”

“This is the part where we escape, right?” Jaskier asks. The witcher seems so calm, he must have an escape plan.

“No, this is the part where they kill us.”

Jaskier swallows. “That seems unnecessary.”

“Still worried about dying from your blisters becoming infected?”

Jaskier tries to twist around to look at the other man in dismay, but all he gets is an eyeful of the back of Geralt’s head. “Of all the times for you to try and get a sense of humor, Geralt.”

One of the female elves shouts something at them in Elder. She’s tall, with tawny skin and red hair. Most importantly, she’s holding Jaskier’s lute.

“Wait,” Jaskier stammers. “Please, leave the lute.”

Her face twists in disgust and she barks something else at him in Elder.

“Sorry?” Jaskier never took Elder at Oxenfurt. He considered it, but he knew that he would take to the language easily, like most halflings. It wouldn’t be enough to break his cover, but it could cause suspicion.

“You carry an elven-made lute,” she snarls.

He blinks. Of all the insults and threats he expected, that wasn’t it. “It was my mother’s.”

“And how did she get it? Did she take it off an elf’s body after the Great Cleansing?”

“It was given to her mother as a gift.”

She slaps him hard across the face. “Liar. You humans, always taking what isn’t yours. Slaughtering our people, taking our treasures, and claiming them as family heirlooms.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to reply, but she hits him again and drives her foot into his chest. Wheezing, he pulls his knees up to his chest to try and defend himself.

“Leave off!” Geralt growls. “He’s just a bard.”

“Shut up, human!” The elf rounds on Geralt.

“There’s only one human here, and you can let him go. There’s no need to kill him.”

That shouldn’t be nearly as touching as it is, but Jaskier feels the tiniest prickle of heat in the corner of his eyes.

“I’m the one who decides that.” The elf drops Jaskier’s lute to the ground (Jaskier makes a pained little noise at that) and draws a long, curved blade from her belt.

Geralt’s voice remains perfectly calm, even as Jaskier’s heart begins to race. “You can take all our things. It looks like you’ve already found our coin. Leave the horse, please. She’s special to me. But there’s no need to kill us. I have no quarrel with elves.”

“No quarrel with us?” The elf rounds on them. “Humans always find a reason to burn our homes and slaughter our people.”

“I’m not a human,” Geralt says. “I’m a witcher. My kind has been betrayed by humans too. But you don’t see me butchering travelers.”

“So you’re a monster. Close enough to a human.” She looks between Jaskier and Geralt, as if trying to figure out which one of them to kill first. She chooses Jaskier, seizing a fistful of his hair and jerking his head back to expose his throat.

“Stop!” Geralt shouts.

It’s hard to speak around the knot of terror in Jaskier’s throat, but he manages. “Look at my ears.”

“What?” the elf and Geralt say at the same time.

“Just look at my ears before you kill us, please.”

To his surprise, the elf actually leans forward to examine his ears. She inhales sharply and he knows what she’s seeing: the faint scar tissue on the shell of his ears where they were rounded. “You’re an elf,” she says.

“Part-elf on my mother’s side.” The blade is too close to Jaskier’s throat; it’s making it hard to think. “That lute is actually a family heirloom, so I’d thank you to treat it with a little more respect.”

“What happened to your ears?” She looks horrified.

“My father had them rounded when I was just a baby. He didn’t know my mother was part-elf until I was born, actually. Caused a bit of a family scandal.” Jaskier winces at the memories. “So as you can see, there are no humans here. Just a witcher and an elf, neither of whom have wronged your people in any way.”

“But you choose to live among them,” the elf says, and Jaskier is very aware that she hasn’t taken the blade away from his throat. “You choose to pass as one of them.”

“We all have our ways of surviving. I have more opportunities as a human than I would as a halfling, and no offense, but I don’t think I would adapt well to the life of a Scoia'tael. Hats have never agreed with me.”

He knows he’s made a mistake as soon as the elf’s face twists in anger. The knife pricks the delicate skin under his chin.

“Toruviel!” a male voice says sharply.

Toruviel and Jaskier both look up as a tall, elegant blond man comes striding towards them. He’s not wearing a hat like his fellows; he has the look of a man with better taste than that. “We can’t kill one of our own.”

“He’s not one of us!” But to Jaskier’s relief, Toruviel withdraws the knife from his throat. “Look at him, Filavandrel. He’s practically a human!”

“But I’m not,” Jaskier says. “I’m an elf, like you. Well, kind of like you. I’m not sure how much elf I have in me, actually. I think it was my great-grandfather who was the elf, but there was never really anyone on my mother’s side of the family I could ask and—”

“We can’t afford to kill elves,” Filavandrel tells Toruviel, ignoring Jaskier entirely. “There aren’t enough of us left.”

“He’s seen us! He can describe us. They both need to die.”

The other Scoia’tael join into the conversation, and soon the six elves are arguing fiercely among themselves in Elder. The second woman in the band and one of the men seem to be on Toruviel’s side, while the other two men are in agreement with Filavandrel. There’s a lot of gesturing and pointing going on. Jaskier can’t tell which side seems to be winning and he decides that when this is all over, he’s going back to Oxenfurt and learning Elder, cover be damned.

“So, you’re an elf,” Geralt says in a low voice.

Jaskier realizes that he almost forgot about the witcher tied to his back. “Part-elf.”

“Were you going to mention that?”

“Probably not, actually. Does it matter?”

“I like knowing who my travelling companions are.”

“Oh, says the man who barely says more than three words at a time. I’m sorry I didn’t give you a detailed account of my family history, Geralt, but if we survive this, I’ll draw you a family tree.”

Toruviel turns from the group and stalks towards them, snapping something over her shoulder in Elder.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier whispers, as he feels Geralt tense behind him.

But instead of slitting their throats, she cuts through the ropes binding them. As soon as he’s free, Jaskier scrambles to his feet, rubbing his wrists. His head gives an unpleasant throb as he stands up and he’s sure he has a nasty bruise on his forehead, but that’s a problem for later.

“Thank you,” Geralt says to Toruviel, looking so unflappable, no one would guess they just nearly got murdered.

“We have no quarrel with witchers,” Filavandrel says. “And your companion is hardly more than a child.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest that he’s twenty-four, damn it, then remembers that they have knives and arrows. He closes his mouth quickly.

“You should clear out of this area,” Geralt tells the man. “Nilfgaard just burned Cintra to the ground and they’ll be marching north.”

Toruviel spits on the ground. “Good riddance. May Calanthe rot in hell.”

“We’re not interested in the wars of men,” Filavandrel says.

“Nilfgaard shows no mercy to humans and non-humans alike.” Geralt eyes the six elves. “If they find you here, they’ll kill you all. Your best bet is to head for the mountains.”

Now that he’s not tied up and helpless, Jaskier can see that the Scoia’tael are a rather pitiful bunch with overly thin faces, tattered clothing, and the empty eyes of people who have been desperate for too long. They’re far cry from the bloodthirsty assassins whispered about in the Cintran court. He feels a tiny twist of pity.

Filavandrel nods. “Thank you for your warning, witcher.”

“Have you seen a large group of people traveling?” Geralt asks. “They would have been refugees from Cintra.”

“We’ve seen several groups traveling north of here.”

“They didn't look like they had anything worth stealing, so we haven’t paid them much attention,” Toruviel adds.

Filavandrel shoots her an exasperated look. “They had the look of refugees. If you’re looking for someone from Cintra, your best bet is to travel north.”

Jaskier looks up at the sun and realizes they’ve been traveling south all day. They’re going to have to double back and do this all over again.

He’s really going to need new boots.

***

“I can’t believe you let them keep all our coin,” Jaskier complains. “And now you have to go find a monster to kill just so we can eat tonight.”

“You could go find a monster, if you prefer.” Geralt distractedly scans the notice board. They’ve found themselves in another backwater village, only slightly more populous than the one where they had breakfast the day before.

“I’m just saying, it’s one thing to surrender your coin to the elves who nearly killed us, but I earned mine fair and square.” Jaskier hasn’t stopped stroking his lute since they parted ways with the Scoia’tael, like it’s a lover he’s been reunited with after years apart. Geralt would mock him, if not for the memory of the genuine anguish in the younger man’s voice when Toruviel threatened the lute.

“They didn’t kill us and they returned all our other possessions. I wasn’t going to waste time arguing with them further. And they needed it. They were starving and one of their women was with child.”

“Toruviel?” Jaskier looks horrified at the thought.

“No, the other one.”

“How do you even know that?”

“I smelled it.”

“If you can smell that a woman is pregnant, how did you not smell that I was an elf, then?”

“Can’t smell anything under the stench of that perfume you wear.” Geralt wrinkles his nose. In truth, elves smell no different than humans (besides usually being cleaner) but he decides not to mention that.

“I’m sorry, not all of us want to smell like onion.” But out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees Jaskier surreptitiously sniff himself.

Geralt finds a notice for a kikimora in a nearby swamp. It will be an easy kill and will pay just enough coin for a room for a night, a bath, and dinner for him and Jaskier. “If you’re part-elf, why live in Cintra? Calanthe was brutal to elves after the uprising. Had she known a part-elf had infiltrated her court, she would have had you executed.”

Jaskier ducks his head. “A job’s a job. There was no infiltration. And I’ve never told anyone about my heritage before. Unless someone decided to take a good look at my ears, I was safe.”

Geralt studies the younger man and can’t believe he didn’t notice the signs that Jaskier isn’t entirely human. The way he moves is too fluid and graceful. His pale skin has clearly never been touched by a blemish. His eyes are just a bit too blue. The bard played with fire living at the Cintran court, but Geralt knows a bit about working for people who loathe his very existence.

“It was always hard for me to reconcile the Calanthe who killed so many elves with the Calanthe I knew,” Jaskier says pensively. “She was a hardass, sure, but she was a good grandmother to Ciri and a good queen to her people. But I guess horrible shit happens in every war, and the slaughter of the elves was no different. Give me a kingdom without atrocities in its past, and I’ll give you a kingdom with a significant chunk missing from its history books.”

“Hm.”

“Anyway, I’ve never felt like much of an elf. My mother didn't survive childbirth and her parents both died when I was young. She didn’t have any siblings and I never met any of her other relatives. It wasn’t until I was older that my father told me I was part-elf. I guess in fifty years, when I still look like I’m in my twenties, it might sink in, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m just a normal human.”

“Unless you need to be an elf to save your life.”

“Our lives, Geralt. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“Hm.”

“Do stop with the groveling. It’s making me uncomfortable.”

Geralt snorts. “Thank you, Jaskier. I’m glad your nonstop chatter finally did some good.”

Jaskier’s chest puffs out at the praise. “Admit it, you love my chatter. There's a reason you begged the elves to spare my life.”

Geralt decides not to grace that with an answer. He points to the notice about the kikimora. “I need to see the alderman about this. Go to the inn and wait for me there. Can you go a few hours without getting yourself into trouble?”

Jaskier looks at the drawing on the notice, which barely resembles a kikimora. “I’ve never seen a kikimora before.”

“And you won’t tonight.”

“Can’t I come?”

“No.” The last thing Geralt needs during a hunt is Jaskier’s incessant talking.

“I could help.”

“Unless you volunteer to feed yourself to the kikimora to distract it, there’s nothing you can do.”

Jaskier puts his hand over his heart in mock offense. “And here I thought we were coming to an understanding.”

“We are,” Geralt says. “Our understanding is that I’ll see you back at the inn.”

And before Jaskier can say anything else, Geralt turns and stalks away.

***

The kikimora hunt is exactly what Geralt needs. It’s quick, but not too quick. The kikimora puts up just enough of a fight to let Geralt blow off some steam. He returns to the village, soaking wet after being dragged underwater by the beast, and drops the head off at the alderman’s house. The alderman tries to haggle about the price (“It’s smaller than I expected,” the fool tries to say) but Geralt walks away with the prearranged amount of coin. It should pay his and Jaskier’s way for the night.

When Geralt approaches the inn, he hears the sound of a lute playing. Of course Jaskier would find himself an audience as soon as Geralt walked away. With a groan, Geralt pushes open the door to the inn. Sure enough, he finds Jaskier strutting around the tavern and strumming his lute while the patrons watch him with rapt attention.

_“When a humble bard  
Graced a ride-along  
With Geralt of Rivia  
Along came this song.”_

It takes a lot to shock Geralt, but his jaw drops.

_“When the White Wolf fought  
A silver-tongued devil  
His army of elves  
At his hooves did they revel.”_

Jaskier catches sight of Geralt standing there and he abruptly breaks off. “And here he is, back from slaying the mighty kikimora. Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, everyone!”

Geralt is ready to kill him where he stands. What the hell happened to keeping a low profile? But to his surprise, instead of booing him and pelting him with food, many of the patrons actually cheer and raise their glasses to him. Jaskier looks so pleased with himself that Geralt can practically smell his smugness on the air. Without missing a beat, the bard starts singing again.

_“They came after me  
With masterful deceit  
Broke down my lute  
And they kicked in my teeth.”_

Geralt watches from the doorway as Jaskier sings like his life depends on it. His version of events hardly resembles the encounter with the elves that morning, but no one in the tavern seems to mind. It seems that he’s already sung this song a few times, as he gets an uproarious laugh at the line _“he can’t be bleat”_ and several people sing along to the chorus. When Jaskier roars, _“Our champion prevailed, defeated the villain, now pour him some ale!”_ a barmaid brings Geralt an ale as if on cue. Geralt would bet good money Jaskier prearranged it so she would do that.

Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt’s and he winks. The bard is clearly basking in the crowd’s energy. His eyes are bright and his face glistens with sweat. The bruise on his forehead gives him a rakish air. His hair is a mess of frizzy curls plastered to his forehead. His doublet is unbuttoned, showing a tuft of chest hair, and his sleeves are rolled up. It’s a good look for him and Geralt feels a tug of something unexpected and unwanted in his gut.

Fucking bards.

***


	5. the lowest of low profiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Geralt, is that an arrow wound?” Jaskier demands. “Were you shot?”  
> “Hm? Oh, forgot about that.”  
> “You forgot that you were shot?”  
> “It was after you fainted. I was trying to get you onto Roach and the elves came up behind me and caught me off guard.”  
> “One, I did not faint. I was knocked unconscious. I am probably concussed. Two, this is something you should bring up before you go out and fight a fucking kikimora. You have a hole in your shoulder, Geralt.”

Jaskier can feel the brooding all the way across the tavern. If there’s anything that Geralt of Rivia is good at, it’s making his brooding known. Taking a break from making eyes at a shapely redhead who seems eager for a chance to play his lute later tonight, Jaskier glances over at Geralt. Despite the ale and the steaming plate of food in front of him, the witcher looks miserable. He clearly fell into the water while fighting the kikimora; his hair is even more of a disaster than usual. Black blood is flecked across his forehead. And still, he’s the best looking person in the room.

“And that’s it for tonight, everyone!” Jaskier calls to the crowd, because the energy in the room is starting to dip and he knows when it’s time to go out on a high note. “Remember to toss a coin to your witcher! And your bard, if you’re so inclined.”

And toss, they do. By the time Jaskier makes his way to Geralt’s table, his pockets are laden with coins. He rattles them for the witcher’s benefit. “Should be enough to buy me a new pair of boots, and maybe a bedroll.”

Geralt doesn’t look at him. He’s keeping an eye on the crowd, like one would watch a pack of wild dogs. “What was that?”

Jaskier steals a potato off the witcher’s plate. “What was what?”

“That song.”

“Oh, my masterpiece? It’s good, isn’t it? They asked me to play it three times, that’s how much they liked it. Turns out the Scoia’tael had been giving the people in this town a fair bit of trouble. They raided a couple of farms and killed all the merchants bringing goods in. When I told them you’d convinced the elves to move on, you became a bit of a hero.”

“None of that happened.”

“Of course it didn’t, Geralt.” Jaskier waves down the barmaid for another ale. “It’s called artistic license.”

“It’s called a crock of bullshit. Why did you call me the White Wolf?”

“You’re from the School of the Wolf, correct? And you have white hair. I thought you’d like it better than the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Somehow, Geralt’s scowl deepens. “I told you that you wouldn’t get a ballad out of me.”

“You underestimate how songworthy you are, Geralt,” Jaskier says, then immediately kicks himself. Too overtly flirtatious.

To his surprise, Geralt doesn’t flip the table over on him. “What happened to keeping a low profile?”

“Oh, please. Look at where we are. You think that word of our movements are going to reach Nilfgaard from this mudpit? We’re keeping the lowest of low profiles here.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything.

Jaskier leans forward, exasperated. “Must I remind you that you lost all our money this morning? We need to earn it back somehow. How much did you get for the kikimora?”

Geralt mutters something into his ale.

“What was that?”

“A hundred crowns,” Geralt says.

“That’s it? My gods, a high-end whore can make more than that for a quickie.”

“You’re overpaying for whores.”

“Excuse me.” Jaskier meets the eyes of the lovely redhead across the bar and shoots her his most dazzling smile. “I haven’t had to pay for company since my Oxenfurt days.”

“Hm.” Geralt’s eyes flick downwards and is it Jaskier’s imagination, or is the White Wolf ogling him? It feels like Jaskier is being ogled. Jaskier is suddenly very aware of the disarray of his doublet and the ugly bruise on his forehead.

Geralt stands up. “I’m going up to the room.” Before Jaskier can figure out whether that’s an invitation, the witcher pushes his unfinished plate of food towards Jaskier. “You can have this.”

“How kind of you.” Jaskier tries not to look too disappointed. If Geralt is letting him finish his food, he clearly doesn’t want Jaskier to accompany him.

Geralt jerks his chin towards the redhead. “Don’t let her pull you into any dark alleyways.”

Jaskier casts his gaze over at the woman, who shoots him a wink. “I’d let her pull me anywhere.”

“Of course you would. And then they—” Geralt points to two large men sitting by the door. “--Would follow you, rob you, and slit your throat. They’re a team. They’ve been signalling to each other all night.”

Jaskier swallows. “What is it with everyone wanting to slit my throat?”

“It’s an effective way to shut someone up.”

Jaskier makes an indignant noise, but Geralt is already walking away. Jaskier stays just long enough to finish the plate of food, along with his and Geralt’s ales. He sang his heart out for their supper and he isn’t going to let any of it go to waste. He keeps an eye on the redheaded woman and her two companions. As soon as the woman looks like she’s going to approach him, he hurries upstairs to the room he’s sharing with Geralt.

“Please, no need to worry, I escaped the people lying in wait to slit my—” Jaskier pushes open the door and freezes. It’s a small room, with only a single bed for furnishing. But there’s enough room for the bathtub that Geralt is currently climbing into, affording Jaskier a glorious view of everything the witcher has to offer. Jaskier can only stand in the doorway, trying his best not to let his mouth hang open like a schoolboy who just caught his first glimpse of cleavage.

Geralt looks up with a scowl. “What?”

“What?” Jaskier is very aware of the uncomfortable tightness in his breeches. He remembers how Geralt smelled the elf woman’s pregnancy earlier. Can he smell Jaskier’s arousal? That would be mortifying. Immediately, Jaskier tries to think of anything but the gorgeous backside of the man in front of him. His eyes fall on Geralt’s shoulder.

“Geralt, is that an arrow wound?” Jaskier demands. “Were you shot?”

“Hm? Oh, forgot about that.”

“You forgot that you were shot?”

“It was after you fainted. I was trying to get you onto Roach and the elves came up behind me and caught me off guard.”

“One, I did not faint. I was knocked unconscious. I am probably concussed. Two, this is something you should bring up before you go out and fight a fucking kikimora. You have a hole in your shoulder, Geralt.”

“Just a flesh wound.”

“A very large flesh wound. Are you going to need stitches?”

“You’re not getting anywhere near me with a needle.”

“I wasn’t offering.” The thought of stitching up Geralt’s skin is enough to make bile rise in Jaskier’s throat. “I can help you clean it, though.”

Geralt is quiet for a moment. “In my bag, there’s a small bottle of clear liquid. Don’t touch the larger bottle. It’d burn the flesh right off your fingers.”

“Well, that’s lovely.” Jaskier rifles around in Geralt’s bag until he finds the small bottle of clear liquid. He also grabs a couple of scented oils from his own bag.

“What are those?” Geralt eyes the oils dubiously.

“Chamomile and lavender oils. They’ll relax your muscles and help with the onion smell.” Jaskier sprinkles a few drops of each into the water. “Now, scoot closer so I can have a look at that wound.”

Geralt complies, grumbling. Jaskier gently uses a cloth to clean the wound, trying to focus on the ugliness of the wound and not the stretch of muscled flesh surrounding it. He knew as soon as he saw Geralt that the witcher would be a magnificent sight undressed, but he wasn’t prepared for the reality. Even as Jaskier cleans dirt and splinters out of a wound in the man’s back, he can’t bring himself to find Geralt unattractive. He doesn’t think anything could make Geralt unattractive. His hands tremble a bit as he dabs the clear potion onto the arrow wound.

It occurs to Jaskier that he might be in trouble here.

“If you’d like me to, I can do something about this rat’s nest you call hair,” he says quietly.

Geralt grunts in response. Jaskier can’t tell if it’s a yes or a no, so he goes ahead, rubs some of the soap onto his hands, and begins to massage it into Geralt’s hair. To his surprise, the witcher relaxes underneath his touch and presses his head against Jaskier’s hands.

“Can I ask you a question?” Jaskier asks.

“Can I stop you?”

“You’re much bigger and stronger than me, so yes.” When Geralt doesn’t reply, Jaskier continues, “Earlier, you asked the Scoia’tael to spare me. Why?”

“There was no need for you to die.”

“There was no need for you to die either.”

“You’re young,” Geralt says. “You have no part of their vendetta against humans. You weren’t even alive when the elves were driven into the mountains.”

“And you were? That was hundreds of years ago.”

Geralt says nothing.

“Either way, thank you,” Jaskier says.

“You’re the one who talked them into letting us go.” Geralt sounds like the words are being forcibly dragged out of his mouth.

“Wow, thank you for finally admitting it. Please remember that next time you’re grumpy about my talking.”

“If your talking were always so useful, I’d be less grumpy about it.”

“Your gratitude is enough to bring a tear to my eye.”

Geralt lets out a contented sigh as Jaskier’s fingers work at the base of his scalp, then clears his throat as if to cover it up. Jaskier is glad that the witcher is turned away from him so he can’t see Jaskier’s grin. They fall into companionable silence as Jaskier finishes cleaning Geralt’s hair, then dabs some lavender oil on his fingers and combs it through the witcher’s white locks. Geralt really does have lovely hair; it’s a shame he doesn’t take better care of it. Jaskier lets his eyes wander over Geralt’s back, taking in all the scars. Geralt needs to take better care of more than his hair, it appears.

“You can ask about them,” Geralt says, sounding resigned. “Everyone does.”

“Will you give me the full story, or one word answers?”

Geralt grunts in response.

“That’s what I thought.” Jaskier feels a jab of fondness for the surly witcher. They’ve only known each other for a few days, but Jaskier likes to think he’s starting to learn to decipher Geralt’s grunts. “I’ll get the story of your heroic exploits out of you one of these days, no matter how much mead I have to ply you with.”

Geralt snorts. “Witchers don’t get drunk.”

“You should know better than to give me challenges at this point, Geralt. Remember how the last one turned out?” Jaskier hums the opening chords of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher.”

“I will drown you,” Geralt growls.

Jaskier laughs. “Oh, Geralt, I’m not even a little afraid of you at this point.”

“Knew you didn’t have a damn bit of survival instinct.”

“I don’t, but that’s not why. You’ve saved me twice in as many days. Three times, if you count the homicidal redhead downstairs. You’re not going to kill me now.”

“Don’t test me.” Abruptly, Geralt stands up, gifting Jaskier with an up close and personal view of his ass. Jaskier’s mouth goes dry.

“I wasn’t done getting all the tangles out of your hair.” He aims for flippant, but the words come out a bit strangled.

“Close enough.” Geralt steps out of the tub, making no effort to cover himself. Jaskier swallows convulsively.

“I can heat it up with Igni if you want to bathe,” Geralt offers.

“No, it’s fine,” Jaskier says quickly. “I, um… I don’t like the water to be too hot.”

After that view of Geralt’s lovely bottom, he definitely needs a cold bath.

***

Ciri has never slept on the ground a single night in her life. She’s never known the feeling of hard dirt and grass under her cheek instead of a pillow or a poorly placed tree root digging into the back of her knee. Eist used to tell her stories of his military campaigns and the long nights spent sleeping in tents deep in monster-ridden forests. It all sounded so romantic and adventurous at the time, but now Ciri is very aware of every sound in the trees around her. She doesn’t think there’s anything more dangerous than the dryads in Brokilon Forest, but it’s hard to forget the creatures that Eist told her about. Manticores, basilisks, nekkers, wraiths… there are a lot of dangerous things out there.

Next to her, Dara is deeply asleep, apparently unbothered by the hard ground or the sounds of the forest. With a jab of guilt, she wonders how many nights the elven boy has spent sleeping alone in the woods. Even with the arrow wound in his shoulder, he seems unfazed. Though Ciri guesses that now that he’s survived being shot by a dryad, nothing else seems quite so scary.

Without thinking, Ciri begins to hum under her breath. She realizes that it’s the song Jaskier sang her the last time she saw him. She wonders where Jaskier is and what happened to him. Did he escape Cintra, or was he just another victim of the Nilfgaardian soldiers? She doesn’t like to think of bright, cheerful Jaskier falling under a sword. She hopes that if he has died (and he probably has; everyone Ciri knows is probably dead) that it was quick and painless.

“What song is that?” Dara whispers.

Ciri breaks off, blushing. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s alright. It was pretty.”

She closes her eyes. “It’s a song my music tutor used to sing. It’s my favorite ballad.”

“Why don’t you sing it?”

She’s glad it’s dark. “I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”

“It’s okay. Neither can I.”

Tremulously, Ciri begins to sing. Her voice doesn’t hold a candle to Jaskier’s, but she thinks she does an okay job of singing about the princess who waits and waits for her gallant knight to come save her, but finally realizes that he’s a coward and slays the monsters keeping her captive herself. If tears track down her cheeks and her voice occasionally wavers as she sings, neither she nor Dara mention it.

By the time she’s finished, Dara has fallen back asleep. Exhausted and heartsick, it doesn’t take long for Ciri to drop into an uneasy sleep where she dreams of her grandparents, Mousesack, Jaskier, and everyone she loves trapped in the burning palace, screaming her name as they’re consumed by flames.

*** 

Geralt sits on the bed with his back turned to the bathtub, ignoring the splashing as Jaskier washes himself. He can still smell the musky scent of the bard’s arousal, though it’s thankfully diminished now that Geralt is wearing breeches. As for the stirrings that Geralt is currently feeling, well, those are harder to ignore. But he’s old enough to know better than to stick his cock wherever he wants, so he’s going to ignore them. He tries to fall into a light meditation, but he finds the contented little noises that Jaskier makes as he scrubs himself clean far too distracting.

Geralt chances a glance over his shoulder to see the bard combing oil through his hair. He’s looking down at the water, which gives the witcher a moment to study him. He knew the bard was handsome, in a foppish sort of way that has never been to Geralt’s taste. But out of those ridiculous doublets he favors, Geralt can see that he has surprisingly broad shoulders and a trail of thick, dark hair crawling down his chest and dipping below the water. Geralt finds himself wondering where that trail ends and has to put an abrupt stop to that line of thought.

He turns away, shaking his head at his own foolishness. A moment later, he hears water sloshing as the bard climbs out of the tub and the squelch of his wet feet on the floorboards.

“I take it I’m sleeping on the floor?” Jaskier sounds resigned.

“The bed is big enough for two.” Geralt regrets the words as soon as he says them.

“Are you sure? Don’t take this the wrong way, Geralt, but you’re quite a broad man, and I’m not exactly a waif either.”

“If you want to sleep on the floor, I won’t stop you.”

“Since you offered so sweetly, Geralt.” The mattress squeaks as Jaskier settles down on it. “Ah, so much better than sleeping on the ground.”

“You’ll have to get used to the ground. This is the last inn we’ll be able to afford for a while.”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem. Tonight, I’m going to enjoy being clean, well-fed, and comfortable.” The mattress squeaks again and Geralt can imagine Jaskier stretching luxuriously behind him. “Are you coming to bed, Geralt, or do witchers sleep sitting up?”

Geralt looks around. Jaskier is under the covers, wearing a silken undershirt that leaves little to the imagination. He’s looking up at Geralt, pupils enormous in the dim light of the room. His cheeks are flushed from the bath and there’s a clear invitation in the gaze. Geralt contemplates accepting for a moment. It’s been a long time since he bedded someone and didn't have to pay for it. It’s been even longer since he bedded someone who wasn’t even a bit afraid of him.

But he can already tell that Jaskier is the type to fall in love quickly and easily, and that isn’t a headache Geralt needs right now.

“Goodnight, Jaskier.” Geralt turns his back on the bard.

He doesn’t blow out the candle and lie down until Jaskier’s breathing turns deep and even with sleep. Once he lies down, he does his best to ignore the warmth of the body stretched out next to him, the way that Jaskier’s arm rests only a hair’s width from Geralt’s hip. He ignores the fact that he and Jaskier both smell of lavender and chamomile, like they’ve already bedded each other and now wear each other’s scents.

For the third night in a row, Geralt doesn’t get a damn wink of sleep.

***

Jaskier feels refreshed after a night of deep, nightmare-free sleep, like a whole new person. He hasn’t had a new song as well-received as “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” in his entire career and he's still basking in the afterglow of a successful performance. He whistles cheerfully as he goes about his business the next morning. He purchases a new bedroll and is able to haggle down the price of a pair of sturdy leather boots enough that he can also afford a heavy woolen cloak. There’s an extra bounce in his step and sway in his hips as he makes his way back towards the inn to meet up with Geralt. He winks at every pretty girl (and several pretty boys) that he sees.

As he walks, he notices the mood of the people passing him by change. Earlier, he was being recognized frequently. Several people stopped him to tell him that they enjoyed his set the night before or sing the chorus of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” at him as he walked by. Now, the townspeople are keeping their eyes down and hurrying to their destination. Jaskier notices lots of anxious whispering, mothers holding their children close to their skirts, husbands keeping protective arms around their wives.

He can’t figure out why until he looks up and sees six Nilfgaardian soldiers coming out of the inn. 

Jaskier freezes. The six soldiers are in full armor, with swords swinging from their belts, and the people of the village scramble to get out of their way. They don’t appear to be attacking anyone; Jaskier doesn’t hear any screaming or begging and nothing is on fire. Instead, they appear to be hunting for someone. They scan the faces of every person they pass. Jaskier wonders if it’s Ciri, until one of the soldiers grabs a tall blond man that walks by. The man is even taller and broader than Geralt, but he cowers in the soldier’s grasp and babbles something unintelligible in his fear.

“Not him,” one of the other soldiers says sharply. “Look at his eyes. He’s not a witcher.”

The soldier releases the blond man, who scrambles away in terror.

Jaskier’s heart lodges in his throat. They’re looking for Geralt. None of the soldiers are looking in his direction, so he steps backwards into the narrow alleyway between two buildings and breaks into a sprint. The problem is that he’s not sure where Geralt had to go this morning--he just muttered something about needing to pick up some supplies for Roach and told Jaskier to meet him back at the inn. But if the soldiers have already been to the inn, Geralt can’t be there. Jaskier runs for the next best thing, the stables where they’re keeping Roach.

He’s breathing heavily and his new boots pinch by the time he reaches the stables. But when he gets to the stall where they put Roach the day before, he finds it empty. Roach is gone.

Geralt left him.

Jaskier shouldn’t be surprised. Geralt has threatened to do just that a dozen times since they met, but the sting of betrayal is like a knife to his gut. Geralt took Roach and fled, leaving Jaskier to the mercy of the Nilfgaardians. Jaskier isn’t sure if the soldiers are looking for him, but he’s sure the locals have told them that Geralt was traveling with a bard. If they find Jaskier, he’s under no illusions about what they’ll do to him to get him to talk.

He hears raised voices approaching and panic claws at his throat. The soldiers are close. He needs to find somewhere to hide. Hands shaking, Jaskier pulls on his new cloak and throws the hood up, even though the day is too warm for it. He doesn’t run--it will draw too much attention--but he walks quickly, trying to keep his face turned to the ground. He knows it’s futile. The lute case alone will give him away immediately.

He thinks of the vial of poison in his bag and swallows back the sick feeling. If it comes to it, he won’t let himself be tortured.

Someone seizes him by the arm and Jaskier starts to cry out, but a hand clasps over his mouth.

“Lowest of low profiles, huh?” Geralt growls in his ear.

Jaskier’s knees go weak with relief. Geralt jerks him into an alleyway and crowds him back against the wall, placing himself between Jaskier and the entrance of the alleyway. His own hood is pulled up, obscuring his hair and his eyes.

“I thought you’d left me.” Jaskier’s voice wavers, and it isn’t entirely from fear.

Geralt’s scowl seems to soften for an instant. “I had to get Roach to safety so we could make a quick getaway. Have they seen you?”

“I don’t think so.” Jaskier’s hand finds the tiny cut on his neck. It’s scabbed over. “Geralt, if my song is what brought them here…”

“Nothing can be done about it now.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Geralt shushes him and Jaskier hears a harsh voice barking orders. He stops breathing. Geralt moves closer to Jaskier, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other on Jaskier’s chest. It’s absurd to feel safe right now, when there are vicious killers on their heels, but he can’t help but be comforted by the witcher’s proximity. Geralt smells like lavender and chamomile and he’s close enough that Jaskier could lean forward and kiss him, if he had any desire to die impaled on Geralt’s sword today. At least, the swords strapped to the witcher's back.

One of the soldiers appears in the mouth of the alleyway and Jaskier’s sense of safety vanishes, replaced by utter terror. The man opens his mouth to shout, but Geralt makes a sign in the air and the soldier’s face goes utterly blank.

“Leave,” Geralt barks. “You didn’t see us.”

The soldier turns and walks away.

“What was that?” Jaskier asks.

“Axii. It won’t hold for long. We need to go.”

Jaskier doesn’t need to be told twice. He lets Geralt take his hand and they run, not stopping until they get to Roach. Geralt grasps Jaskier’s waist, eliciting a startled gasp, and lifts him up onto Roach. If Jaskier’s gut starts doing funny things at being picked up like he’s some slip of a maiden, he sternly tells the butterflies in his stomach that now is not the time. Geralt hauls himself up behind Jaskier and they canter away. Jaskier keeps expecting to hear shouts behind them and turn around to see the Nilfgaardians bearing down on them, but the roads remain empty except for them.

It’s not until they’re well away from town that Geralt pulls Roach to a halt and lets Jaskier dismount. Despite his earlier moaning about being made to walk, Jaskier doesn’t complain. It’s not comfortable to share a saddle with another full-grown man, and he’s sure it’s even more uncomfortable for Roach. He pats her on the neck and she paws the ground in warning. Jaskier hastily retreats.

“Where to next?” Jaskier asks.

“We should stay away from towns for now.” Geralt’s mouth is set in a grim line. “If they’re looking for me, civilization is too risky.”

“Why would they be looking for you?”

“They must have found out about the Law of Surprise somehow. They must know that I’m looking for Ciri too. Maybe they think they can use me to find her, or they just want to eliminate me so I can’t get in their way.”

“How would they have found out? Who knew?”

“Calanthe and Eist, though they both died before they could be interrogated,” Geralt says flatly. “And Mousesack.”

Jaskier closes his eyes. He knows that Mousesack wouldn’t have given any information to the Nilfgaardians easily. “Oh gods.”

Geralt is quiet and when Jaskier looks up, he sees that the witcher’s face is twisted into something like grief, before smoothing out into his normal impassivity.

“You’re friends?” Jaskier asks gently.

Geralt jerks his head in a nod. “We’ve known each other for years, since he served the kings of Skellige.”

“He might still be alive.”

Geralt nudges Roach into a walk. “I hope for his sake that he isn’t.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me three chapters to get to huddling for warmth and it only took me five to get to gratuitous bathtub scenes and bed sharing. Who knows what Chapter 6 will bring?


	6. a feast for the crows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier looks around at all the still, silent corpses and all he can see is Cintra burning. Something inside him seems to crack open. “Fuck, what is the point of all this? Why kill all these people? What threat were they? A whole city’s worth of innocent people, people with futures ahead of them, and now they’re just a feast for the crows.”  
> Geralt looks down at the body at their feet, that of a young man with an arrow in his face, and frowns. “Not crows. We should go.”  
> “What do you mean, not crows?”  
> “Worse things than crows are drawn to corpses.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: There are some graphic descriptions of dead bodies in this chapter. Please proceed with caution.

The doppler wearing Mousesack’s face walks as it sifts through the memories of its latest host. Queen Calanthe, the woman who Mousesack was just a little bit in love with. Her labored breathing as she lay dying and the blank, staring eyes of her broken corpse. The overwhelming grief when Mousesack learned that Eist Tuirseach had fallen in battle. Princess Cirilla, as everything from a squalling infant to an impetuous and stubborn toddler to a quick-witted and even quicker-tempered young woman. And Geralt of Rivia.

The doppler focuses on Mousesack’s memories of the witcher. It can see Geralt’s face clearly in its mind: the strong profile, the sharp jawline, those piercing amber eyes. It’s a glorious face, and the doppler wishes it could steal a shape based on a memory alone. The witcher’s form would bring it strength and power like it’s never known before.

Mousesack’s last memory of Geralt was kneeling on the ground outside the burning palace, surrounded by soldiers, and looking up to see a flash of familiar white hair. He watched the witcher slip into the night, followed by the young bard, Jaskier. Geralt never saw him. Mousesack wanted to cry out so badly, to call for help, but he held his tongue. Geralt needed to escape the city. He needed to survive to save the princess.

Mousesack’s blood is still drying under the doppler’s nails.

The doppler’s orders are to go to Brokilon Forest and retrieve Cirilla, but it knows that it stands no chance in its current form. The only man the dryads will let retrieve a girl from their protection is one bound to the girl by destiny.

The doppler needs to find Geralt of Rivia.

***

For the entire day after they flee the little village and its Nilfgaardian visitors, Jaskier is on edge, starting at every rustle in the bushes and constantly looking over his shoulder, like he expects the soldiers to be on their heels. The bard is quiet, at least. Their near miss seems to have reinforced the need for discretion. Still, it puts Geralt on edge. The subtle scent of fear from Jaskier has him primed for an attack that may never come, making Geralt almost as twitchy as his human companion.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore when they stop to make camp and Jaskier nearly jumps out of his skin when Geralt throws an armful of firewood onto the ground. “If you don’t stop flinching at every noise, I’m leaving you at the next town,” Geralt growls.

He’s made a similar threat a dozen times over the last few days and he expects Jaskier to roll his eyes or fire back with a witty rejoinder. Instead, Jaskier goes ashen and mutters an apology. Geralt remembers Jaskier’s panic when Geralt found him that morning and the shaky way he said, “I thought you’d left me.” The bard genuinely thought that Geralt would leave him to die at the hands of the soldiers. Geralt feels a twist of guilt.

He gentles his voice. “I would know if we were followed. We’re safe.”

Jaskier looks skeptical. “What, can you see the future too?”

Geralt sighs. He doesn’t like giving humans details of his mutations; it tends to lead to pitchforks and torches. But he needs to reassure Jaskier, or he may stab him just to get some damn peace. “If I didn’t smell any attackers long before they reached us, I would be able to hear their heartbeats.”

“Your sense of smell is that strong?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, your natural scent doesn’t bother me. I prefer it over all the perfume.” Geralt will never admit it, but he's actually come to like how Jaskier smells. He's never met anyone who puts so much care into keeping themselves clean while traveling, cleaning his teeth and meticulously picking dirt from under his nails. Jaskier even has a powder he puts in his hair to stop it from becoming too greasy. It's all ridiculous, but the result is... pleasant.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier gasps. “This perfume is from _Toussaint!_ ”

“Well, you might want to use less of it, or I may not be able to smell a battalion of soldiers coming.”

Jaskier grumbles a bit at that, but is mostly quiet as Geralt builds a fire. When Geralt looks up, he sees the bard tapping his fingers to a tune inside his head.

“You’re not writing a song about my sense of smell, are you?” Geralt asks.

“Of course not.” Jaskier smiles wanly. “No more songs about our travels. I’ve learned my lesson. Though you could help me out by being less inspiring.”

Geralt snorts. “I’m going to go catch us some dinner.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen and the fear scent sharpens.

“I’ll be back,” Geralt tells him, then wonders when he started giving a damn about reassuring the bard.

Jaskier is still subdued for the rest of the night; he doesn't even complain about the stringiness of the rabbit Geralt catches for dinner. Still, he's less jumpy and his posture is more relaxed than it's been all day. He falls asleep as soon as he collapses into his bedroll, leaving Geralt to sit up and meditate. It’s the fourth night in a row of Geralt not getting any sleep and he knows he’s beginning to push the boundary of what even his witcher stamina can handle. He needs a good night’s sleep soon, or his reflexes are going to start to slow.

By the next morning, Jaskier seems back to his normal self, prattling on about a strange dream he had and trying to tempt Roach to let him pet her by feeding her sugar cubes (she happily accepts the sugar cubes, and then nearly bites his fingers off for good measure.) It disturbs Geralt that after knowing Jaskier for less than a week, he’s already starting to see the bard’s prattle as familiar. He lets it fade into the background as they pack up the camp and continue to head north.

The journey north is peaceful, with the only sounds being Jaskier’s babbling, the normal sounds of wildlife, and the trickle of a nearby stream. The woods are unusually quiet. Even though they’re staying away from the main roads, they should have run into some sign of humanity over the last two days, be it travelers, merchants, or bandits. People must be hunkering down in fear of the Nilfgaardians moving north. Thinking of the carnage in Cintra, Geralt can’t imagine their muddy little villages offering much protection against the onslaught.

They’ve been traveling all day when Geralt smells the blood and smoke in the air. He pulls Roach to a halt. Jaskier keeps walking for several paces, waving his hands wildly as he talks about some bastard troubadour named Valdo Marx, before he notices that Geralt has stopped. “Geralt, what’s wrong?”

“Something’s burning a couple of miles ahead,” Geralt says. “Or, it’s already been burnt.”

“Like a campfire?” Jaskier looks around hopefully.

“No. There’s blood and burnt flesh. There was another attack.”

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathes. “Nilfgaard?”

“Could have been bandits.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” Jaskier looks at Geralt with wide eyes, as if expecting him to say something reassuring. Geralt isn’t sure where Jaskier got the idea that Geralt knows how to be reassuring.

Geralt dismounts from Roach and walks next to Jaskier, reaching back to rest a hand on the hilt of his steel sword. He tells himself that it’s so he won’t have to waste time dismounting if they’re attacked. It has nothing to do with being within arm’s reach of Jaskier so he can push the bard to safety if need be. Next to him, Jaskier has fallen silent. The tension is back in his posture and he keeps looking nervously between Geralt and the trees surrounding them.

“So, if the potential trouble is up ahead, shouldn’t we be going in the opposite direction?” Jaskier asks.

“I think the trouble up ahead is what we’re looking for.” The scent of smoke is becoming overwhelming. Geralt tries to focus on Jaskier's scent instead.

It’s nearly dark when they come across the destroyed Cintran refugee camp, with the broken corpses and charred remains of tents littering the ground. The sight isn’t a surprise, but Jaskier still makes a choked noise of horror. Geralt surveys the destruction with a sinking feeling in his gut.

He is so tired of this fucking war.

***

Somehow, walking through the refugee camp is worse than Cintra. In Cintra, the people had a fighting chance, with city walls and soldiers meant to keep them safe. But these refugees were unarmed, unprotected, and living in flimsy tents that anyone with a sword could cut through. Jaskier doesn’t want to look at the bodies. There are too many small ones. But he has to keep an eye out for white blond hair and staring green eyes among the corpses. His hands start to shake when he sees a small, fair-haired body, but when he turns her over, he finds a cherubic, freckled face with hazel eyes. His relief is so strong that he immediately feels guilty. This little girl was someone’s daughter too. He closes her eyes before moving on to the next corpse.

Jaskier finds a large tent filled with corpses--men, women, and children alike. This must have been one of the wealthier families; the women are missing fingers, like soldiers cut them off rather than taking the time to pry their rings off their swollen, stiff hands. One of the women has been stabbed so many times, her face is gone. Jaskier shudders and is about to leave the tent when he spots a familiar pair of slippers under one of the beds. They’re delicately embroided, lovely, and absolutely torn to shreds.

Ciri’s shoes.

The strangled noise Jaskier makes must draw Geralt’s attention, because the witcher bursts into the tent only a moment later, sword already drawn. When he finds Jaskier kneeling on the ground with the slippers in his hands, he frowns. “What are those?”

Jaskier is having trouble breathing. There’s blood on the insides of the shoes. Sticks and stones must have torn through the delicate silk as Ciri fled Cintra, tearing her feet to shreds. She’s probably in pain, limping, scared. If she’s even alive at all. “Calanthe had these made for Ciri to wear to the feast,” he says hoarsely. “Ciri loved them. She wouldn’t take them off for days before the feast. She was afraid that Martin, the little lordling that Calanthe made her dance with, would step all over them and ruin them.”

“She was here.”

Jaskier nods. “But she’s not here anymore. I haven’t seen her body. Fuck, Geralt, do you think Nilfgaard has her?”

Geralt kneels down next to him and takes one of the slippers from him, turning it over in his hands. “I don’t know.”

“What do they want with her?” Jaskier demands. “She’s just a princess. Why all this trouble just to hunt down a twelve year old girl?”

“Could be that the emperor wants a marriage alliance to give his rule more legitimacy with the Northern Kingdoms.”

Jaskier feels queasy at the thought. “But she’s alive, right? If her body isn’t here, she has to be alive.”

The witcher doesn’t answer.

“Please say something reassuring,” Jaskier whispers.

“Yes, Jaskier, she’s alive. She’s probably found her way to some cozy cabin with a friendly farmer and his family and they’ve adopted her as their own. She’ll never know another day of grief or danger in her life. Happy?”

“No, but thank you for the effort.”

“She’s not here. She’s survived not one, but two massacres. There are trained soldiers who couldn’t boast that.”

“But Nilfgaard could have her.”

“And if they do, she’ll survive them too.” Geralt claps a hand on his shoulder. He immediately withdraws his hand, looking at the offending appendage with a faint look of betrayal, like he doesn’t know what got into him. If Jaskier weren’t trying so hard not to cry, he would find it hilarious and strangely adorable.

“See, that’s how you do reassurances, Geralt.” Jaskier climbs to his feet and slips Ciri’s shoe into his pocket. It feels wrong to leave it in the middle of this wreckage, even if it is functionally useless as a shoe. If nothing else, maybe a mage could use it to track Ciri. Geralt seems to be thinking the same thing, since he pockets the other slipper.

“Let’s go,” he says gruffly. “There’s nothing we can do for anyone here. There aren’t any survivors.”

Jaskier almost asks if he’s sure, then remembers that Geralt would be able to hear the heartbeats of any survivors. “Shouldn’t we at least bury them?” he asks as they leave the tent. Night has truly fallen now and the woods are pitch dark around them.

“Too many. We’d be here all night.”

Jaskier looks around at all the still, silent corpses and all he can see is Cintra burning. Something inside him seems to crack open. “Fuck, what is the point of all this? Why kill all these people? What threat were they? A whole city’s worth of innocent people, people with futures ahead of them, and now they’re just a feast for the crows.”

Geralt looks down at the body at their feet, that of a young man with an arrow in his face, and frowns. “Not crows. We should go.”

“What do you mean, not crows?” Jaskier examines the body closer, realizing with a lurch that a good portion of the young man’s lower body is missing. No arrow did that.

“Worse things than crows are drawn to corpses.” Geralt is already walking away. “We’ll make camp nearby and come back in the morning to see if we can find any more clues as to Ciri’s whereabouts.”

Jaskier jogs after him. “I hope you realize when you say ‘worse things than crows’ it’s very vague and leaves me with a lot of questions about what exactly—”

Something wraps around his ankle and jerks. Jaskier just has time to yell Geralt’s name before he’s pulled to the ground and dragged backwards, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the dirt.

***

“Geralt!” Geralt hasn’t heard that terrified plea in Jaskier’s voice since the soldiers had him surrounded in Cintra. The witcher turns in time to see a ghoul with its hand clasped around Jaskier’s ankle, dragging him backwards. The bard is screaming for Geralt and clawing at the ground to try and find purchase. Behind him, an entire nest of ghouls is seething up from the ground. 

Fuck. Geralt hates necrophages. He should have smelled them, but the scents of rot, blood, and smoke were so strong in the camp and he was trying so hard to focus on Jaskier’s scent instead that he missed them.

One bite, and Jaskier is as good as dead.

Geralt is across the clearing in a heartbeat, silver sword drawn. He decapitates the ghoul holding Jaskier and drags the bard to his feet. “Run,” he tells Jaskier, giving him a gentle shove.

Jaskier shakes his head, eyes wild with fear. “I’m not leaving you!”

“Don’t be an idiot. Get to Roach!” He doesn’t have time to look and make sure the bard follows his instructions. Another ghoul lunges for Geralt and he runs it through. There are more clawing their way up from the ground. Soon. they’ll be swarming the camp. Geralt slashes and hacks at the ghouls as they attack, casting Igni whenever he needs to drive a wave of them back. They’re easy enough to kill, but the sheer number of them is overwhelming.

One leaps onto his back and sinks its teeth into his shoulder. The pain almost brings Geralt to his knees. He tries to throw it off, but it holds fast and it’s at the wrong angle for him to be able to stab without possibly running himself through. Geralt decapitates three charging ghouls with one stroke, but he can feel his concentration growing muddled as blood flows down his arm and chest.

“Geralt!” He looks up to see Jaskier standing there, holding a branch. “Cast Igni!”

“I told you to—” Geralt starts to snap, but the bard shakes his head.

“Yell at me later. Cast Igni now!”

Geralt does as he says, setting the branch aflame, and Jaskier attacks the ghoul hanging onto Geralt. If the side of Geralt’s neck gets a little scorched, he decides not to complain about it. The ghoul falls with a shriek and scrambles towards Jaskier, but Geralt stabs it through the back of the skull and it falls. Geralt expects the bard to scamper off into the night, but instead Jaskier stands back to back with him, holding the burning branch like a sword.

“I’m not going to tell you to run again,” Geralt growls.

“Good.” The chipperness of Jaskier’s voice is belied by the frantic pounding of his heart. “I can only ignore you so many times before I start to feel rude.”

Geralt will never admit it, not if he lives for another millennia, but having Jaskier at his back while he fights is useful. The ghouls shy away from Jaskier’s burning branch, giving Geralt the opportunity to kill them. Jaskier shouts warnings to Geralt whenever another ghoul is coming at them. Geralt pays attention to every thrum of the bard’s pulse, reassured that his heart is still beating.

And then Jaskier cries out and Geralt whirls around. The branch has been knocked out of Jaskier’s hand and the flame is extinguished. The bard is on the ground, arms raised to protect his face, as no less than six ghouls round on him. Geralt doesn’t pause to think. He leaps over the cowering bard and places himself between Jaskier and the ghoul. The first ghoul sinks its teeth into his thigh and Geralt decapitates it, just as the second one bites him in the side and a third one clamps down on his neck. Geralt kills the one biting his side and another one that lunges towards him, but reels under the weight of the one hanging off his neck.

Screaming in anger, Jaskier reaches up and grabs the ghoul biting Geralt, trying to pull it away from him. The ghoul releases Geralt and turns on Jaskier, teeth gnashing, and Geralt cuts its head off. He kills the last two ghouls effortlessly and scans the camp. All he can see are corpses. Every one of the ghouls is dead. When he turns to face Jaskier, the bard is staring at him in horror.

“Are you hurt?” Geralt demands. “Did they bite you?”

Jaskier doesn’t reply.

“Jaskier.” Geralt stumbles towards him. His legs feel heavy. “This is important. Did they bite you? Their bites are venomous to humans.”

“I’m fine. Geralt, you’re bleeding.” Jaskier’s voice cracks on the word “bleeding.”

Geralt looks down at himself. He didn’t realize just how many bites and scratches were covering him. His shirt is drenched in blood and he can feel his heartbeat stuttering as the rot in the ghouls’ teeth spreads through his veins. His limbs are sluggish and when he raises his head to look at Jaskier, he has trouble focusing on the bard’s face.

“What can I do?” Jaskier demands.

Geralt opens his mouth to tell him that this is fine, he will be fine, he’s had worse, but his mouth doesn’t seem to be able to form words. He doesn’t realize that his knees have given out until the ground is rushing up at him and he succumbs to darkness.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually feel a little bad about this cliffhanger, so I am sorry, everyone!


	7. don't go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are only three of them. At first, Jaskier is relieved by that number, before realizing how ridiculous that is. Three bandits or twenty bandits, it won’t make much of a difference. They’re all larger than him, armed to the teeth, and have the desperate look in their eyes of people who have been fighting for survival for far too long. And Jaskier is alone, save for a grumpy horse and a grumpy and unconscious witcher. He has a dagger, but it won’t do much good when all three men have multiple daggers, swords, and other unpleasantly pointy instruments.

Geralt is as heavy as he looks. In order to drag him out of the nest of dead ghouls, Jaskier needs to strip him of his armor. Even then, it’s a slow, laborious process, not helped by the fact that no amount of pleading with Geralt to wake up seems to be working. By the time Jaskier manages to half-drag, half-carry Geralt back to Roach (it’s mostly dragging, but when he retells this story someday, he'll describe cradling Geralt in his arms like a fair maiden) every inch of Jaskier hurts and Geralt still hasn’t stirred.

Jaskier kneels down beside the unconscious witcher and does his best to examine the wounds in the dark. From what he can see, they’re bad: gaping wounds in the man’s shoulder, neck, thigh, and side. From the little he knows about ghouls, Jaskier figures that infection is inevitable. A lesser man probably would have already succumbed to blood loss, but when he presses his fingers to the pulse in Geralt’s neck, he finds a slow, steady heartbeat.

“Geralt.” Jaskier pats the witcher on his cheek. Geralt doesn’t stir. “Geralt, come on, I don’t know what to do here. What do you need me to do?”

No answer.

“Come on, Geralt,” Jaskier pleads. “There has to be some witcher magic you cast on yourself, or you would have bled out years ago. What about your potions? One of them has to help.”

Geralt’s eyelids don’t even flicker. Jaskier thinks he’s been doing an admirable job at not panicking throughout this ordeal, even after nearly being dinner for a nest of ghouls, but he can feel the horror of the last hour creeping up on him. All those bodies, Ciri’s destroyed shoes, the ghouls coming at them from all sides, and now Geralt lying here, so pale and motionless that he looks dead.

But falling apart right now will do Geralt no good, so Jaskier scrambles for Roach’s saddle bags. The mare doesn’t so much as nip at him, even though he’s well within biting range. She’s standing perfectly still, as if she understands the gravity of the situation.

“You must be part kelpie,” Jaskier tells her. “You’re way too smart for a normal horse. It’s uncanny.”

Roach blinks at him slowly, as if to tell him that she accepts his flattery, but is unmoved by it and will still bite his hand off at the first opportunity.

Jaskier finds the clear potion that he dabbed on Geralt’s wounds the night he fought the kikimora (was that really only two nights ago?) He has no idea if the potion is supposed to only be used topically or if it can be drunk, but he doesn’t know what else to try.

“In my defense,” he tells Geralt as he tips the contents of the bottle down Geralt’s throat. “I did ask you about your potions the other day, and you just growled at me. Had you been more forthcoming, I would know what to do right now.”

Geralt says nothing, though Jaskier likes to think that if he were awake, he would admit that Jaskier has an excellent point and apologize for ever doubting him. Jaskier watches his face carefully for any sign that the potion is taking effect. He was hoping that Geralt would immediately spring to his feet, good as new, and be eternally grateful to Jaskier for his assistance, but Geralt doesn’t move. He also doesn’t convulse and expire on the spot, which Jaskier has to take as a win.

“You heal faster than normal humans, right?” Jaskier asks Geralt. “So you’ll heal from this. You have to.”

Geralt doesn’t move for a long time. Jaskier busies himself by cleaning and binding the witcher’s wounds to the best of his ability. The night is bitterly cold, with a light snow falling. He’s dying to start a fire, but he has a feeling that drawing attention to them while Geralt is injured would be the last dumb decision he ever makes. So he huddles close to the witcher as he works, feeling slightly guilty about using the man as a human furnace while he’s in this condition, but not guilty enough to stop.

It's been too long and Geralt is too still. Jaskier starts to stand, intending to go rummage through the saddle bags to see what other potions look promising, but Geralt’s hand shoots out and seizes Jaskier by the wrist. Jaskier yelps.

Geralt is looking straight at him, but his eyes are glassy. Whatever he’s seeing, it’s not Jaskier. “Wait,” he says hoarsely. “Don’t go.”

Something in his expression breaks Jaskier’s heart. He looks young and confused. “I’m not leaving you,” Jaskier says gently. “Just trying to figure out what potion you need.”

“Don’t go,” Geralt says again.

Gently, Jaskier pries Geralt’s grasp from his wrist and takes his hand, squeezing his calloused fingers gently. “I’m not going anywhere. Rest.”

Geralt’s eyes close and he goes still again.

***

Drinking the waters was supposed to fix everything. The dryads told Ciri that it would make her forget--forget the flames consuming Cintra, forget the screaming and crying in the Cintran camp, forget the hurt and anger on Dara’s face when he found out who she was and the horrible things he claims her grandmother did to his people. So Ciri greedily drinks every drop of the water that Eithne offers her. If she drinks enough, maybe she can just be another dryad of Brokilon Forest. Princess Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon will vanish forever and there will be nothing left for Nilfgaard to claim.

She doesn’t forget.

Instead, she sees everything. It’s too much: flames and blood and screaming and men on horseback and thousands of people all over the Continent, just trying to live their lives as Nilfgaard marches north. Everything is a blur of confusing sights, sounds, and smells and maybe this is how she forgets, by losing her mind entirely.

But then she’s in a snowy forest, looking down into the sweat-soaked face of a man with long, white blond hair. He’s bleeding and dying on the ground, while another man kneels next to him, murmuring reassurances. It’s Jaskier. As confused and frightened as she is, Ciri’s heart soars to see him alive. But her music tutor’s face is tense with fear as he watches the unconscious man.

And then the blond man’s eyes open and look directly at Ciri. They’re yellow, almost animal-like, and even though Ciri has never seen this man in her life, she knows who he is immediately.

_“Find Geralt of Rivia. He is your destiny.”_

“Wait,” Geralt of Rivia says, and his voice doesn’t sound anything like she imagined. He sounds frightened. “Don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ciri tries to tell him, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.

“Don’t go,” Geralt says again, more desperately this time.

Ciri wants to stay, but as in so many things, she doesn’t have a say in the matter. She finds herself back in Brokilon Forest and instead of Geralt of Rivia, it’s Eithne’s concerned face that she’s looking into.

***

Geralt knows he’s hallucinating. Even with the ghouls’ venom seeping its way through his veins, rendering him unconscious, he’s aware enough to know that he’s not actually a small child again, chasing after his mother’s cart as the shine of her red hair vanishes into the distance. He can hear Jaskier’s voice, but it sounds far away. Potion is poured down his throat, but it’s the wrong potion, and he wants to snap at the bard not to waste his precious resources.

He watches his mother drive away, over and over again. He stabs Renfri in the neck. He breaks Yennefer’s heart on a mountaintop (or did she break his heart? He still doesn’t know.) He’s back in Cintra and the soldiers have Jaskier surrounded, but instead of stepping in, Geralt walks away. He hears Jaskier screaming and begging for mercy behind him before the cries become young and female. When he turns around, it’s Ciri dead on the floor from a slashed throat.

Somewhere, he can hear Jaskier talking. He can’t make out the words, but they’re low and steady.

A girl is standing over him, with long, pale hair and bright green eyes. Ciri. Her eyes are filled with tears as she stares down at him in confusion. Slowly, the image begins to fade away.

“Wait,” Geralt croaks. “Don’t go.”

Her lips move, but he can’t hear what she’s saying.

“Don’t go,” he says again, but she’s gone before he can finish the words.

Jaskier is still talking. Geralt feels Jaskier’s soft hand in his. He smells lavender and chamomile.

Then he’s standing on that mountain top again, looking out at the view, and Yennefer is standing next to him. She looks just as she did the last time he saw her, with her dark hair tousled by the wind and her purple eyes gazing at him like she can read his soul.

“I need to know where you are, Geralt,” she says.

“Yenn?” Geralt stares at her, confused.

“I went to Cintra to find you,” Yennefer continues. “I knew you would try to save your child surprise before Nilfgaard invaded. But I was too late. They’re looking for you, Geralt. They know that you’re looking for the girl. Tell me where you are, and I’ll get you both somewhere safe.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Why would you help me?”

“Because we may not be lovers anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to see you in Nilfgaard’s clutches. And that little girl is important. She needs to live.”

“How do I know you’re really Yennefer?”

Her lips quirk. “Does anyone else know you’re ticklish on your—”

Jaskier screams.

***

There are only three of them. At first, Jaskier is relieved by that number, before realizing how ridiculous that is. Three bandits or twenty bandits, it won’t make much of a difference. They’re all larger than him, armed to the teeth, and have the desperate look in their eyes of people who have been fighting for survival for far too long. And Jaskier is alone, save for a grumpy horse and a grumpy and unconscious witcher. He has a dagger, but it won’t do much good when all three men have multiple daggers, swords, and other unpleasantly pointy instruments.

If Jaskier and Geralt survive Nilfgaard and a nest of ghouls only to be taken out by a trio of bandits with five teeth between them, Jaskier will be livid.

Jaskier holds up his hands to show that there are no weapons in them. Now would be an excellent time for Geralt to regain consciousness. “We don’t want any trouble.”

The tallest of the three men, who could put Geralt to shame with his broadness, smiles. “Nice horse.”

“That she is.” Jaskier fights to keep his voice even. “I wouldn’t recommend taking her, though. Her master is quite fond of her, and he’ll be waking up any minute.”

Geralt doesn’t move. He doesn’t so much as scowl menacingly in his sleep.

“Will he?” The bandit peers down at Geralt in mock concern. “Looks like your friend had too much to drink.”

Jaskier glowers at him. “I take it you’re on your way to loot what’s left of the Cintran refugee camp. If you are, you owe this man a debt. He was just injured killing the nest of ghouls that would be feasting on your entrails right now.”

“I think he’s a witcher, Axel,” one of the other bandits, a baby faced young man, mutters.

The first bandit, Axel, nudges Geralt with the toe of his boot. “So he is. Some witcher, getting taken down by a few ghouls.”

“There may still be a couple left,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. “If you want to go test your luck with them. See if you walk away unbitten.”

Axel smirks. “Fine clothes you’ve got there. Have a fine money bag to match?”

Shakily, Jaskier climbs to his feet. “This man isn’t just a witcher. This is Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken.” If he feels a pang of guilt over using that dreadful nickname, he tamps it down with the reminder that he and Geralt need to survive this. “This is not a man you want to make an enemy of. Leave now, and I won’t tell him about this when he wakes up. You’ll be spared his wrath.”

Axel studies Geralt appraisingly. “Seems like we should make sure he doesn’t wake up, then.”

Fuck. That didn’t go the way Jaskier intended. He can see in the bandits’ eyes that they don’t intend on letting Geralt and Jaskier survive this encounter. “All our coin is in that knapsack over there. Just take it and leave. We have nothing else to offer you. There’s no need for this to get ugly.”

"Just finish this already, Axel." The third bandit, a wiry bald man, seizes Roach by the reins. “I’m tired of the chatter.”

“I really wouldn’t recommend you do that, good sir.” Jaskier tries for an ingratiating smile. “She’s mean as a kikimora and bitey as a bruxa.”

"We know how to break a horse." Axel draws his sword slowly, letting the steel scrape against the scabbard. The baby faced bandit mimics him.

Jaskier braces to feel the blade at his throat. However, Roach makes her objections to this plan known by biting the bald man’s nose clean off his face. The man screams in horror. Jaskier doesn’t think his pimply nose is much of a loss, but the man clearly disagrees, as he draws a wicked blade from his belt with one hand, while cupping his bleeding face in another. Realizing the man’s intent, Jaskier jerks the knife Geralt keeps in his boot out of its scabbard and lunges between the bald man and Roach.

Jaskier and the bandit grapple, and the only thing that keeps them on even footing is that the bald man is fighting with one hand. The other two bandits hang back, neither willing to come within biting range of the nose-eating horse, not even to help their friend. The bandit swings his knife wildly and Jaskier jumps back just in time, so the blade merely nicks his chin. Jaskier realizes that he’s been fighting defensively, ducking and dodging, when he needs to go on the attack. These men will kill him and Geralt. They’ll take Roach. Ciri will be out there somewhere, with no one coming to save her.

The bandit charges at Jaskier and Jaskier sinks his knife into the bald man’s gut. Jaskier screams at the same time as the bandit, repulsed by the feeling of his knife sinking into his opponent. The bandit’s eyes go wide--he’s as surprised as Jaskier by this turn of events--and he falls to his knees. Breathing heavily, Jaskier turns and finds himself faced with the two other bandits.

“You’re going to die for that, you little shit,” Axel growls.

Jaskier tries to yank his knife out of the dying man’s gut, but it’s in too deep. Fuck. “Look, in my defense, you were going to slit our throats and steal our horse, so I think you can forgive me for being a bit stabby.”

“But I was going to make it quick.” Axel lovingly turns his sword over in his hands. “Now I’m going to—”

Jaskier never learns what the man’s undoubtedly gory intentions are for him, because Axel’s words cut off in a strangled moan as a blade runs through him. He looks down in disbelief at the blade sticking out of his belly for a moment before collapsing. Geralt is on his knees, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, looking up at Jaskier with bleary eyes. As soon as he sees the witcher is awake, the baby faced bandit bolts for the woods, leaving his two companions for the crows.

Geralt let’s Axel’s body fall, sword still embedded in his back, and then collapses back onto the ground.

“Geralt!” Jaskier scrambles over to him. “Fuck, what can I do? I didn’t know what potion to give you and I thought it might kill you if I gave you the wrong one and—”

“Tall bottle, yellow potion,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier rifles through the saddle bag until he finds the potion he’s looking for. Placing one hand under Geralt’s head to support him, Jaskier tips the potion down his throat. The witcher is conscious, but just barely. His eyes are staring somewhere to the left of Jaskier’s face. Killing Axel seems to have required all his energy.

“Thank you,” Jaskier tells him. “I think I was about to be drawn and quartered.”

“If you were lucky,” Geralt grunts.

Jaskier smooths Geralt’s hair out of his face. “What else can I do?”

“Nothing. The potion will get the poison out of my system faster.”

“So you’ll be okay?”

“I don’t know.” Geralt closes his eyes. “Lots of bites. Too many.”

“Hey.” Jaskier pats him on the cheek. “Stay awake, Geralt.”

“Can’t.”

“Yes, you can. Come on, there has to be something else I can do. Some other potion or some plant that conveniently grows nearby.”

Geralt’s eyes open a slit. “Just talk to me.”

Jaskier smiles. “Okay, but I’m going to remind you of this tomorrow morning, when you’re feeling better and keep snapping at me to shut up.”

“I know you will.”

So Jaskier holds Geralt’s hand and talks. Geralt drifts in and out of consciousness. His skin is too hot, so Jaskier gathers up fistfuls of snow to rub against Geralt’s face, desperately trying to get the fever down. Geralt twitches and moans in his sleep occasionally and Jaskier strokes his face and whispers that everything will be okay. The night gets darker and colder around them. Creatures in the woods make strange, terrifying noises, but Jaskier keeps his focus on Geralt. The witcher has to survive this. He has to be okay.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he sits there, desperate for any sign that Geralt will improve, before a sound in the woods catches his attention. It’s not the shriek of an animal, but the low, steady footsteps of something coming towards them. Jaskier’s blood runs cold. It could be some creature drawn by the blood of the two corpses. It could be friends of the dead bandits seeking revenge for their companions’ deaths. It could be any number of things and Jaskier may have gotten lucky with the ghouls and the bandits, but he doesn’t fancy his chances in a third fight.

Slowly, Jaskier rises to his feet and picks up Geralt’s sword. It’s so heavy, he can hardly lift it. If he has to fight with it, he’ll have to hope for a very slow opponent. He can see the outline of a figure coming towards him. Jaskier’s breathing comes out in quick, desperate pants. Geralt is so still on the ground and Jaskier can’t count on him regaining consciousness to help this time. Roach nickers softly, sounding more curious than alarmed; Jaskier wonders if she’s hungry for more noses.

The person steps out of the trees and Jaskier’s eyes widen when he catches sight of a familiar face. He drops the sword. “Mousesack?”

***

Geralt wakes up, which is the first surprise. He blinks in the bright morning sunlight, trying to reorient himself. Everything hurts, but he looks down to see that his wounds have only left faint scars. The second surprise is that when he sits up, it’s Mousesack that he finds kneeling by the fire, cooking a rabbit.

“Good, you’re awake!” Mousesack smiles when he sees Geralt. “It was a close thing, my friend. Jaskier did an admirable job of taking care of you, but when I found you, you were on death’s door.”

Geralt looks around for Jaskier and finds him sound asleep on his bedroll, mouth agape and arm flung over his eyes.

Mousesack chuckles. “He went to sleep as soon as he knew you would live. Seems like the two of you had a trying night.”

“You’re alive,” Geralt says.

The smile falls off the druid’s face. “That was another close thing.”

“How? I thought you’d been taken or killed.”

“I was taken. I’ll spare you the gory details, Geralt, but suffice to say, they left me near-dead in the middle of their camp outside Cintra when they packed up and moved on. Luckily for me, they seemed to think me just another sorcerer, instead of a druid. There was just enough life left in the ground that I was able to save myself.”

Geralt doesn’t believe in luck. “Were you followed?”

“Come on, Geralt. I’ve been around for nearly as long as you. I wouldn’t have sought you out if I were being followed.”

Geralt still takes a moment to listen to the woods around them. When he reassures himself there are no Nilfgaardian soldiers lurking in the trees, he says, “Nilfgaard knows that Ciri is my child surprise.”

Mousesack looks at the ground. “Their mage, Fringilla, has some of the most powerful mind magic I’ve ever seen. She was able to see into my thoughts and pull out every bit of information she could find. They didn’t even need to torture me. They just did that for fun.”

Geralt’s hands fist in his lap. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“And I you. When I got to your cell and found you gone, I feared the worst.” Mousesack hesitates. “I am sorry about that. I tried to talk to Calanthe, but you know how she is. Was.” His face contorts in grief and he turns away to tend to the fire.

Geralt gives him a moment to compose himself, before saying, “I broke out of the cell to find Ciri, but she was already gone. Found Jaskier instead.”

“And I’m glad that you found him,” Mousesack says. “He’s a good kid. A bit silly, but he's always been good with Ciri.”

Geralt glances over at Jaskier's prone form. “Not as silly as he wants people to think.”

“I suppose not, if he’s survived these last few days. It’s not like you to pick up a stray.”

“It was unintentional. But I couldn’t leave him. He wouldn’t survive on his own.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. He gutted a man last night, and didn’t even lose his dinner.”

Geralt closes his eyes. The fight with the bandits last night is a blur. He remembers Jaskier’s horrified scream. Driving his sword through the gut of the bandit rounding on the bard. But now he remembers the second dying bandit, twitching and groaning on the ground. Jaskier took a life the night before. The thought turns Geralt’s stomach. Jaskier never should have been put in a position where he had to kill someone to protect them. Geralt should have been the one to make that choice. If he’d been just a bit quicker with the ghouls…

“Don’t brood, Geralt,” Mousesack says. “You were half-dead. The boy did what he had to do to survive. You can’t blame yourself. Look at you, going soft in your old age.”

Geralt scowls at him. “I’m not soft. He’s only traveling with me so Ciri will see a friendly face when we find her. Gods know mine isn’t friendly.”

“Luckily for you, his is friendly enough for the both of you. Though I'm sure you've noticed that by now.”

Geralt doesn’t like the direction this conversation is taking. “We don’t know where Ciri is. We found her shoes in a burnt out Cintran refugee camp last night, but no other trace of her. Nilfgaard may have her.”

Mousesack shakes his head. “Nilfgaard doesn’t have her.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she’s somewhere where even Nilfgaard can’t get to her,” the druid says. “She’s in Brokilon Forest.”

“Fuck.” Geralt rubs his forehead. “Of course she’s in Brokilon Forest. Not only do I have to fight Nilfgaard to get to her, but now I have to get through the fucking dryads too? Does this Fringilla know?”

“She does. But they don’t know how to get to her. Brokilon Forest isn’t the type of place you can take with an army.”

“Won’t stop them from trying.”

“Perhaps not. But for now, Ciri is safe there.”

“Maybe we should leave her there. She won’t grow old. She’ll live out an eternity there in peace.”

“I thought of that myself,” Mousesack says sadly. “But destiny has bound the two of you together, Geralt. You can’t fight destiny. Calanthe tried for twelve years, and look what happened. Ciri will lose herself eventually in those woods. She’ll forget who she is. We can’t let that happen.”

“The dryads won’t want to let her go.”

“They won’t, but they’ll have to. The Law of Surprise is more powerful than the dryads’ magic. Ciri is yours, Geralt. You’re the only one who can get her out of Brokilon Forest.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope this made up for last week's cliffhanger (even though it's still kind of a cliffhanger, but no one is actively bleeding out, so this is me being nice.)


	8. the kinder cruelty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I found a merchant caravan that’s heading towards Novigrad, by way of Oxenfurt,” Geralt says. “A silk trader. They’re willing to take passengers for a price. They leave tomorrow.”  
> Jaskier frowns. “You want us to travel with a caravan? But Novigrad is nowhere near Brokilon Forest.”  
> “It’s not. Mousesack and I will go to Brokilon Forest. I’ve left you enough coin to pay your way onto the caravan and for another night here. You can travel to Oxenfurt with them.”  
> Jaskier stares at the back of the witcher’s beautiful, incredibly thick head. “Pardon me?”

For someone who was at death’s door only hours before, Geralt is ready to go as soon as Jaskier wakes up from his nap. “Pack your things,” he tells Jaskier as soon as Jaskier sits up. “There’s a town half a day’s ride from here. We’ll be staying there overnight.”

Still groggy, Jaskier blinks at him. “I thought we were staying away from towns for the time being.”

“Geralt’s still healing,” Mousesack says before Geralt can reply. “He needs a real bed to sleep in for the night.”

Geralt doesn’t look pleased at the prospect, but he doesn’t argue either. Jaskier can only imagine the reaction if he tried to bully Geralt into staying in a real town overnight. He doesn’t know whether to be jealous, or just relieved that Mousesack is here. He settles for the latter and grins at the druid. “It’s good to see you, Mousesack,” he says. There was no time for catching up the night before; Mousesack arrived and immediately began trying to save Geralt’s life, and Jaskier went to sleep as soon as it became clear Geralt would live.

“You as well.” Mousesack reaches down to help him to his feet and clasps him on the shoulder. “It’s a lucky thing that Geralt found you.”

Jaskier smiles wryly. “Lucky for me.”

“And lucky for him as well. He wouldn’t have survived last night if you hadn’t been there, no matter what else he may grumble.”

Jaskier looks over at Geralt, who is still scowling. “Are you alright?” the witcher asks.

“Me?” Jaskier laughs. “I’m not the one who got chomped on by a pack of ghouls last night. I’m fine.”

Geralt looks past him and Jaskier turns to see two fresh mounds of dirt, the graves of the two bandits who attacked them the night before. Cold realization settles over him. He killed someone. He can remember the horrible gurgling noises the bandit made as he died and he shudders.

“You did what you had to do.” Geralt’s voice is gruff.

“It was him or us,” Jaskier says softly. “He was about to hurt Roach. I didn’t have a choice.”

“The first one is always hard.”

The first one. Jaskier hopes with his entire being that there won’t be a second. “I’d rather he be buried in the dirt than you or Roach.”

“We can’t let anything happen to this old girl.” Mousesack goes to pat Roach on the nose and the horse lunges at him. It’s not the normal lazy snap she favors when Jaskier gets too close. Roach seems intent on taking Mousesack’s entire face off, and probably would, if Geralt’s hand didn’t shoot out and seize her by the reins.

“Whoa, Roach, settle.” Geralt looks between the horse and Mousesack, frowning. “She bites.”

“I noticed!” Mousesack laughs shakily. “I’m a druid. I’m used to even the most crochety horse liking me. Your last Roach loved me.”

Geralt shrugs. “She wasn’t as discerning.”

“Wait, you’ve had multiple horses named Roach?” Jaskier is so distracted by this revelation, he forgets to be horrified by Mousesack nearly losing a limb to Roach.

“Every horse of his has been named Roach,” Mousesack says, still edging away from the mare. “The first horse he ever had was an ornery chestnut mare with a white star on her nose named Roach, and every horse he’s had since has been an ornery chestnut mare with a white star on her nose named Roach. Don’t let the glower fool you, Jaskier. Our Geralt has a soft heart.”

“Careful, or I’ll let her bite you,” Geralt says, but he’s already leading Roach to the opposite side of the camp from Mousesack and Jaskier. Roach snaps at the air half-heartedly in Mousesack’s direction.

“Don’t take it personally, Mousesack,” Jaskier tells the druid. “That animal ate a man’s nose right off his face last night.”

“Horses are omnivores,” Geralt says.

“Not normally _that_ omnivorous!”

Geralt shrugs. “Told you she’s part kelpie. Just be glad she hasn’t dragged you into a lake and drowned you.”

“You wouldn’t let that happen.” Jaskier shoots him a grin that is just a bit flirtier than Jaskier would normally dare to be. The multiple near death experiences the night before have left him bolder.

“Hm. Don’t test me.”

But while Jaskier is packing up his bedroll, Geralt comes over and hovers awkwardly behind him. “Thank you,” he grumbles.

Jaskier peers up at him. “For what?”

“Mousesack is right. I wouldn’t have survived last night if you hadn’t tended to my wounds. I probably wouldn’t have survived the fight with the ghouls either without your help. So thank you.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry, Geralt, but can I get that in writing? I was useful and didn’t slow you down?”

“I never said that.”

“But you did. I can see it in your eyes. It’s alright, Geralt, not everyone is comfortable playing the role of blushing damsel in distress.”

“I don’t blush.”

“Is that another challenge?”

Geralt meets his cheeky grin with a scowl. “And I’m sorry you had to take a life last night. That wasn’t a burden I ever wanted you to bear.”

Jaskier sobers. “I’d do it again, if I had to.”

“Not many people would risk their lives for a witcher.”

“Not many people would risk their lives for a part-elf bard, but here we are.”

All Jaskier gets in response to that is a grunt, but it’s all the response he needs.

***

The town a half a day’s walk from the Cintran refugee camp is less of a muddy shithole than Geralt would like. It’s a decent-sized village, strategically located on the roads to Novigrad, Cintra, Temeria, and Sodden, so it’s a popular stop for merchant caravans and travelers. Geralt hides his medallion, stows his swords in his saddlebags, and puts his hood up to pass as a human, even though he itches without his swords in hand. He would prefer to sleep in the woods, but Mousesack is right: he needs a good night’s sleep in a real bed. He’s exhausted, and it nearly got him and Jaskier killed the night before.

They’re able to get two rooms at the shittiest of the three inns in town, which may as well be a palace from the way Jaskier carries on. The bard seems thrilled to have a roof over their head and hot food, as if they’ve been sleeping on the road for months, and not two nights.

“No singing,” Geralt tells Jaskier when he catches the bard trying to bring his lute down to the tavern for dinner.

Jaskier looks at Geralt like the witcher just threatened to geld him. “Geralt, I know you’re not fond of things like music and joy…”

“Singing draws attention. Remember the last town?”

“We’re going to run out of coin eventually, and what draws less attention, you slaying monsters, or me singing a couple of songs?”

The bard has a point. Geralt’s teeth clench. “Don’t sing that stupid song about the elves.”

“If you mean my masterpiece, then I won’t.”

“If that’s your masterpiece, bard, time to give up and become a farmer.”

“Oh, you.” If Jaskier had long hair, he would probably flip it over his shoulder disdainfully. As it is, he marches downstairs with his nose in the air.

“The song about the elves?” Mousesack cocks an inquisitive eyebrow.

“Don’t ask,” Geralt grumbles.

Downstairs, they already find Jaskier sweet talking the barmaid. Mousesack and Geralt find a table in the corner, away from the crush of people in the tavern. Being around this many people makes Geralt twitchy, especially when he doesn’t have his swords with him. Especially when Jaskier is all the way across the room, flirting with a woman twice his age who probably has a husband somewhere who would be happy to kick his ass. Geralt watches Jaskier, keeping an eye out for signs of trouble, until Jaskier saunters over to their table with three tankards of ale.

“There’s bad news and good news.” He slams the tankards down on the table. “The bad news is, there’s no coin to be made from singing here tonight. I’ll have to rely on tips. The good news is, the lovely Madame Elsa is willing to let me sing for my supper.”

“Hm.” The lovely Madame Elsa is eyeing Jaskier’s backside appreciatively. “Is she married?”

“It hasn’t come up.”

“If you get your throat slit in an alley by a jealous husband, I’m not coming to your rescue.”

“We both know that you’re far too gallant to mean that. Try the meat pies, gentlemen. Elsa says they’re divine.” Jaskier goes to sit on a stool in the corner with his lute and his tankard of ale and begins to play. The room immediately quiets down as people turn to listen.

“She’s old enough to be his mother,” Geralt grumbles into his tankard, watching the barmaid watch Jaskier.

“And you’re old enough to be his great-great-great-grandfather,” Mousesack says. “What of it?”

Geralt chokes on his ale.

The druid’s eyes twinkle in the candlelight. “You’re fond of him.”

“Fond of Jaskier? He’s a pain in my ass.”

“Geralt, I’ve known you far too long to believe that. If you didn’t enjoy his company, you would have left him to his own devices. He’s a charming boy. Well-known for his romantic dalliances in Cintra.”

“I don’t want to hear about his romantic dalliances.”

“I can see that.” Mousesack sends a significant glance towards the barmaid. “There’s no shame in caring about someone, my friend.”

“He’s my responsibility. I told him I would keep him safe. I keep my word.”

“Of course you do.” Mousesack sighs. “Geralt, the path that you and I are walking right now leads only to death. You know that, right?”

Jaskier is singing that horrible song about the fishmonger’s daughter. The whole tavern seems to love it. “Yes.”

“The dryads aren’t known for letting the men who walk into Brokilon Forest live. There’s a chance we won’t even begin to utter the words ‘Law of Surprise’ before they shoot us.”

“I know.”

“And even if we survive Brokilon, Cahir and Fringilla are looking for Ciri. Our paths will cross with theirs eventually. I’m going to be honest with you, Geralt. They terrify me. If they were simply power-hungry, that would be one thing, but they’re zealots. They truly believe in this white flame business, and they think Ciri is instrumental to it. They will do whatever it takes to find her.”

“I know.”

“And what do you think someone like Cahir would do to someone like Jaskier?”

Geralt pictures Jaskier cowering against the wall, surrounded by Nilfgaardian soldiers. “Nothing good.”

“This town is lousy with merchant caravans. One of them is bound to be heading towards Oxenfurt or Lettenhove.”

“What are you saying, Mousesack?”

“I’m saying that we should put Jaskier on one of those caravans in the morning. Whatever comes next, it’s going to be dangerous. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Jaskier has gotten up from his stool and is starting to bounce around the room. When he catches Geralt’s eye, he winks.

“He’s going to help me with Ciri once we find her.” As soon as Geralt says the words, he knows they’re foolish. He no longer needs Jaskier as a familiar face to help Ciri get acclimated to him; the princess has known Mousesack for far longer than Jaskier.

“Or Ciri will watch him be cut down by dryads or soldiers, and the poor girl will be traumatized all over again,” Mousesack says gently. “Geralt, I don’t want to do this either, but it’s for the best. I’ve already seen enough death these past few days. I don’t want to cause Jaskier’s.”

Jaskier is singing a bawdy song about mermaids that Geralt will have to tell him later is anatomically impossible. “It seems cruel to leave him in the middle of nowhere.”

“It’s the kinder cruelty, Geralt. You know that. How can we take him with us, when we know what will happen to him?”

And Geralt does know that. Because Jaskier may have surprised Geralt with his bravery last night. He may be quicker, smarter, and gutsier than Geralt initially gave him credit for. His blue eyes may see Geralt in a way that no one has seen him in years. But Geralt doesn’t want to see him impaled on a dryad’s arrow. He doesn’t want to find his broken body after Nilfgaardian soldiers finish interrogating him. He doesn’t want to lose him to a ghoul or to bandits.

But Geralt can already picture the look on Jaskier’s face when Geralt tells him that he’s not accompanying them any farther. He remembers the bard’s terror when he thought Geralt left him behind in the previous village. 

This may be the kinder cruelty, but that doesn’t make it the easier one.

***

By the time Jaskier stumbles back to his room later that evening, he’s tipsy on ale and the thrill of a successful performance. He expects to return to an empty room, but finds Geralt already sprawled out on the bed on top of the quilt. The witcher’s eyes are closed and Jaskier softens his steps, thinking him asleep, until Geralt says, “You’re back sooner than I expected.”

“It’s been a long couple of days. Need to preserve energy for tomorrow.” Jaskier shrugs off his doublet. “I figured you’d be bunking with Mousesack.”

“He won’t share a bed with me. We shared a cabin once on a ship to Skellige. He says I hog the bed.”

“You do.”

“You can always go bunk with Mousesack.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.” Jaskier likes the druid, but he finds him far too intimidating to share a bed with. He fully realizes the irony of finding Mousesack more intimidating than Geralt, but he’s become comfortable with the witcher over the last few days.

“You’d rather impose on me?”

“Always.”

Geralt snorts. “Does this ruin your plans with Elsa?”

The disdainful twist on Elsa’s name makes Jaskier grin. “Concerned about my virtue, Geralt? You’re about a decade late for that.”

“I couldn’t give two shits about your virtue.”

“Then are you jealous?” Realizing he may have just crossed a line, Jaskier is quick to add, “If you had your eye on Elsa, you should have said. I would have put in a good word.”

“Hm.”

“Alas, Elsa is married and her husband and two handsome, burly sons were in attendance tonight, so I felt it unwise to consummate our simmering attraction. She’ll always be the love of my life that got away.”

“Until the next town and the next barmaid.”

“Or barman. I’m not picky.”

“Well aware.” Geralt is looking at Jaskier intently. His arms are crossed behind his head and he looks gorgeous in the candlelight with his white hair and golden eyes. Jaskier is pretty sure that the witcher is staring at his mouth.

Which is why Jaskier makes the stupidest decision of his life. He crawls across the bed and kisses Geralt. He’s not expecting Geralt’s lips to be so soft. He’s not expecting the small, surprised noise the witcher makes when their mouths meet. He’s not expecting the way Geralt’s hand comes to cup the back of Jaskier’s head tenderly, like Jaskier is something precious that needs to be held onto.

And he’s not expecting Geralt to abruptly break away and snap, “Don’t do that again.”

Jaskier jumps back, as if he’s been burned. Mortification makes his cheeks flame red. “Oh, fuck, shit, Geralt, I’m sorry. I thought… I misread things, didn’t I?”

“Yes.”

This has never happened before. Jaskier has never kissed someone who didn’t want it. He’s always been good at reading people. “I’m sorry, I thought you wanted to kiss me.”

Geralt says nothing, just stares at the ceiling.

“Did you want to kiss me?” Jaskier’s voice sounds very small and very young to his own ears and he hates himself for it.

“It doesn’t matter,” Geralt says. “You’re going to regret that in the morning.”

Jaskier lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Geralt, I don’t think it’s possible for someone to regret kissing you.”

“You will.” Geralt turns over on his side so his back is facing Jaskier. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stares at him for a long time, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to change his mind and decide that yes, he really does want to kiss Jaskier. But Geralt doesn’t move, so Jaskier finally blows out the candle and settles himself carefully into bed, staying as far away from the witcher as is possible in such a small bed.

It takes a long time for him to fall asleep.

***

The next morning, Jaskier is awoken by Geralt striding into the room, already fully dressed, with his belongings packed by the door. The light coming in through the windows is blinding; it’s probably late morning. Normally, Jaskier would have a flippant comment at the ready, but the shameful memory of the kiss stills his tongue. He made an utter fool of himself and he knows the sting of it won’t go away anytime soon. Jaskier normally doesn’t take rejection so personally, but it’s hard not to when Geralt won’t even look in his direction.

“Sorry, you should have woken me,” Jaskier says. “Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready to go.”

Geralt just grunts in response and throws a handful of coins on the bed, then turns away to fiddle with his bags. Jaskier has never seen Geralt fiddle before.

“I found a merchant caravan that’s heading towards Novigrad, by way of Oxenfurt,” Geralt says. “A silk trader. They’re willing to take passengers for a price. They leave tomorrow.”

Jaskier frowns. “You want us to travel with a caravan? But Novigrad is nowhere near Brokilon Forest.”

“It’s not. Mousesack and I will go to Brokilon Forest. I’ve left you enough coin to pay your way onto the caravan and for another night here. You can travel to Oxenfurt with them.”

Jaskier stares at the back of the witcher’s beautiful, incredibly thick head. “Pardon me?”

Geralt still won’t look at him. “It’s too dangerous for you to continue traveling with us. The dryads of Brokilon are hostile to outsiders, especially men. We’re hoping the Law of Surprise will protect us, but we have no guarantees. And traveling with us further will only put you at risk.”

“As opposed to how peaceful and risk free the last few days have been?” Jaskier doesn’t miss Geralt’s use of the words ‘we’ and ‘us.’ In the last day, Mousesack and Geralt have become a team, and Jaskier has been shoved aside. Of course. Geralt has known Mousesack for longer than Jaskier has been alive and Jaskier has only been traveling with him for a week. Mousesack has known Ciri her whole life, so Geralt no longer needs Jaskier to be a friendly face. Jaskier has been rendered useless.

“The caravan is well-guarded,” Geralt tells him. “You’ll be safe, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jaskier sputters. “Is this about last night?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? Because yesterday, you were thankful that I saved your life and couldn’t believe how useful I suddenly was, and today, you’re leaving me behind like a lame horse. A lame horse who tried to jump your bones, which wasn’t my finest hour, I’ll admit, but in my defense, it’s very hard to share a bed with someone who looks like you and not get any—”

“There’s a good chance that none of us get out of this alive, Jaskier. You’ll be safe in Oxenfurt.”

“Until Nilfgaard shows up.”

“You have a better chance surviving there than you do if you continue to travel with me.”

Jaskier blinks back the sudden heat in his eyes. “Do I get a say in this?”

Geralt doesn’t reply.

“I’m falling in love with you.” Jaskier doesn’t know why he says it. It’s not going to convince Geralt of anything. Jaskier doesn’t even realize that it’s the truth until the words are already out of his mouth.

Geralt is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier laughs. “That’s it? I tell you I love you, and you apologize?”

“You barely know me, Jaskier. You’ve been through a lot in the past week. It’s normal for feelings to get confused.”

“I think this is the least confused I’ve ever been, Geralt.”

For the first time, Geralt turns to look at him. His mouth is set in a grim line. “As soon as you’re on that caravan, you’ll forget about me. You should forget about me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible.”

“Try.” Geralt picks up his saddlebags and opens the door. “Goodbye, Jaskier.”

“You were wrong, by the way,” Jaskier says. “I still don’t regret last night.”

Geralt pauses and for a glorious instant, Jaskier thinks that he finally said the right thing, found the secret code to get the witcher to stay with him. But then Geralt is gone without another word, leaving Jaskier behind. Just like Jaskier always knew he would.

***

“He’ll be alright, Geralt,” Mousesack says, when they’re an hour’s walk outside the village. They walk side by side, with Geralt between Roach and Mousesack. The horse tried to bite Mousesack twice more that morning and Geralt finally had to cast Axii on her to keep her subdued. He hates doing it--the bland, submissive look in his mare’s eyes seems wrong--but it was the only way to calm her.

Geralt grunts in response. He’s been doing his best not to think about Jaskier. Jaskier, who told Geralt that he’s falling in love with him. No one has ever told Geralt that they love him before, not even Yennefer. Whores will say the words for the right price, but Geralt never saw the point. He never realized that they were words he needed to hear until Jaskier said them.

“He loves Oxenfurt,” Mousesack continues. “He used to never stop talking about it, when he first got to court. And if any kingdom survives Nilfgaard, it will be Redania.”

That’s what they used to say about Cintra, Geralt thinks. “He was upset.”

“Of course he was. He’s young. He still thinks everything is a story. But he’ll land on his feet, Geralt. He’ll probably even get a good ballad about heartbreak out of it. You did the right thing, my friend.”

“Hm.” Geralt should have left Jaskier with a better weapon than a single knife. What if the caravan is besieged by bandits or Scoia’tael? What if a Nilfgaardian recognizes him as the bard who was traveling with the witcher? What if the merchant takes his coin and leaves him behind?

“Here.” Geralt jerks the knife out his boot, the same knife that Jaskier used to protect Roach from a bandit not long ago. “If we’re going to be traveling together, you should be armed.”

He shoves the knife into Mousesack’s hand before the druid can protest, hilt first. He’s surprised when Mousesack hisses in pain and the smell of burning flesh fills the air. Geralt’s eyes meet the familiar, lined eyes of his old friend. A silver knife shouldn’t affect a druid like that. Worn down from a week without sleep and still distracted by his last conversation with Jaskier, it takes Geralt a second too long to comprehend what just happened.

Mousesack curses and drives the knife into the side of Geralt’s neck.

Shocked, Geralt falls to his knees, using one hand to staunch the bleeding while he gropes for a sword with the other, but a kick to his chest sends him sprawling on the ground. He can feel the blood pouring down his neck and knows that he’s bleeding too fast to heal from this on his own.

“We are sorry, Geralt,” the thing that isn’t Mousesack tells him, smiling sadly. “We didn’t intend to kill you just yet.”

“Mousesack,” Geralt manages to whisper.

“Dead. We drove the knife into his heart ourselves.” The doppler’s features shift until Geralt is looking up at his own mirror image. The doppler bends down so that its face is inches from Geralt’s. “Don’t worry, the girl will be in safe hands with us. No harm will come to her. Well, harm will probably come to her, but we won’t be the ones doing it.”

Geralt tries to say something, but all that comes out is a gurgle. Before he loses consciousness, the last thing he sees is his own face smiling smugly down at him.

***

The doppler doesn’t originally intend to go back to the village. It plans to leave the dying witcher in the dirt and continue to Brokilon Forest, wearing his face. But Geralt and Jaskier were right: a friendly face will make it easier to corral the princess. The witcher’s body comes with a myriad of benefits--strength, speed, the ability to cast signs--but a friendly face isn’t one of them. The doppler knows its current visage would probably terrify a twelve year old girl used to the softness of courtiers and nobles.

And there’s an added benefit to keeping Jaskier around. He’s almost as pretty as the body the doppler had to give up to become Mousesack. Once it is done with Geralt of Rivia’s scowling visage, Jaskier will do quite nicely.

It finds the door to the bard’s room at the inn bolted and knocks. “Jaskier?”

From inside, it hears the shuffle of movement. A heartbeat picks up. These advanced senses will take getting used to.

“Jaskier, let me in,” the doppler says.

Jaskier opens the door, looking pale and drawn. He gives the doppler a disbelieving look. “You came back?”

The doppler forces its grim mouth into a smile. “I came back.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Sorry.
> 
> But, Yennefer finally shows up next chapter, if that makes anyone feel better!


	9. one doesn't just walk into Brokilon Forest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier doesn’t see any dryads surrounding them, but he knows they’re there. He can feel the weight of unseen malevolent gazes on him and he’s never felt so vulnerable. One twitch of a dryad’s finger, and he’s dead. Several figures emerge from the trees. They’re all stunningly beautiful, scowling, and armed with bows and arrows or spears. He counts six of them as they surround Geralt and Jaskier, though he’s sure there are more of them lurking out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: some dubcon kissing.

“Fuck, Geralt, what happened?” The voice is familiar, cutting through the layers of unconsciousness. Geralt tries to open his eyes, but they’re too heavy.

Hands touch his face and he’s enveloped in the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries.

“Stay with me. Geralt, you’re not dying today. Open your eyes.”

His eyes flutter open and a familiar violet-eyed face stares down at him.

“Yennefer,” he tries to say, but his lips move soundlessly.

Yennefer looks furious. “You will not die on me, Geralt. Do you understand me? You will not die.”

Normally, when she talks to him in that tone of voice, he has no choice but to listen, but the lure of the comfortable, numb darkness is stronger than she is. Geralt closes his eyes, her shouts at him to stay awake fading with his consciousness.

***

“You’re back.” The last person Jaskier expected to find at his door was Geralt, but the witcher is standing in front of him, an amused glint in his golden eyes.

The witcher’s lips twitch into a smile. “I’m back.”

“Did you forget something?” Jaskier doesn’t step back to let Geralt in. Technically, Geralt paid for the room, but that doesn’t mean Jaskier has to make this easy for him.

“I did.”

“What was it, your sense of humor? Your common decency? One of your dozen knives?”

“No,” Geralt says. “I forgot you.”

Jaskier’s jaw drops. When he recovers his senses, he says, “You didn’t forget me, Geralt. You left me like so much unwanted weight in your saddlebags. You abandoned me in some backwater shithole—”

Abruptly, Geralt closes the gap between them and kisses him. If last night’s kiss was gentle and exploratory, this one is rough and hungry. Jaskier feels it in his entire body like a bolt of lightning. He lets himself lean into the kiss for an instant before he steps backwards, breaking away from Geralt. Geralt follows him into the room and closes the door behind them.

“You can’t just kiss it and make it better,” Jaskier tells him in what he intends to be a frosty, imperious tone. The fact that he’s breathing heavily and has an erection visible through his breeches lessens the effect.

Geralt’s expression sobers. “I know. I’m sorry, Jaskier. I wanted to protect you. I wanted you safe at Oxenfurt, away from me. But I realized I couldn’t live not knowing if you were okay, worrying that bandits had set on the caravan or that you’d slept with the wrong man’s wife and gotten your throat slit. It would drive me mad.”

It’s the most impassioned speech Jaskier has ever heard from Geralt and it leaves him stunned into silence. When he recovers his voice, he asks, “Where’s Mousesack?”

“He received word from an associate of his at Ban Ard and he’s on his way to meet them. He’s going to secure a safe place for us to bring Ciri once we find her.”

“Oh, so that’s why you need me now. Mousesack is gone.”

Geralt arches an eyebrow. “Actually, Mousesack decided he was no longer needed here once I told him I was coming back for you. All three of us don’t need to go to Brokilon Forest.”

Jaskier nods, still trying to wrap his mind around this sudden reversal. Over the last few hours, he’s run the gamut of emotions from hurt to fear to anger to a deep, melancholy numbness. Now, he doesn’t know if he should let himself be relieved. “So you want me to come with you? And then what? Do you send me away to Oxenfurt once we’ve found Ciri?”

“I won’t make the same mistake twice, Jaskier. You can travel with me for as long as you want. I hope that will be a long time.”

Jaskier takes a deep, shaky breath. Part of him feels like he should make Geralt work harder for forgiveness, but there isn’t time. They need to get to Ciri and meet up with Mousesack. “You and I will have to have a talk later, once we’ve gotten Ciri.”

“I know.”

“It will be a long talk. And I’ll expect you to use your words, like you just did, and not revert back to angry grunts.”

“Of course.”

Jaskier scrubs at his face. “Give me a few minutes to get my things together. There’s bathwater, if you want to wash. It’s probably cold by now, but you can always heat it up.”

“I’m fine.” Geralt looks him up and down. “You changed.”

Jaskier glances down at his forest green doublet and breeches. “My other outfit was covered in blood, char marks, bits of ghoul, and gods only know what else. It didn’t make me look like the reputable type a merchant would want tagging along on his travels.”

“Hm. You look good.”

“Stop looking at me like that, or I’m going to need the cold bath.”

Geralt laughs, not a chuckle or a snort, but a throaty, full-bodied laugh and gods, now Jaskier really needs a cold bath. He hurries to pack his things, trying not to pay attention to the witcher watching his every move. If he thinks too much, he’s going to start wondering if not leaving for Brokilon Forest for the next couple of hours would really be that much of a problem After all, he doesn’t want to get shot by a dryad before he gets a chance to have that glorious cock inside of him.

“All set?” Geralt asks him, though he doesn’t sound particularly impatient.

“Yes.” Jaskier forcibly drags his mind out of the gutter. “Let’s go walk into Brokilon Forest. Which I have concerns about, because from what I’ve heard, one doesn’t just walk into Brokilon Forest unless they have a death wish or some very specific sexual fantasies.”

“We have the Law of Surprise on our side. The dryads will respect that.”

“And if they don’t?”

Geralt shrugs. “We’ll make them.”

They find Roach outside and Jaskier tentatively pats the mare on the side of the neck. “Miss me, beautiful girl? My heart ached for you the entire time we were parted.”

Roach doesn’t snort or snap at him. She doesn’t seem to even notice his presence. She stands perfectly still, eyes dull and listless.

“Geralt, there’s something wrong with Roach.” The horse’s empty gaze unnerves Jaskier. It reminds him of the mindlessness of the ghouls.

“She kept trying to bite Mousesack, so I had to cast Axii on her. Not sure what’s wrong with her. She’s not normally like this.”

Jaskier strokes Roach’s nose, marveling at the velvety softness. “Is she hurt?”

“Doesn’t seem to be. She’s walking fine.”

It’s okay, girl,” Jaskier murmurs in Roach’s ear. “I know I’m your favorite, but you can let other men near you. I won't get jealous.”

“Axii could wear off any minute.”

Jaskier steps back hurriedly. “And on that note, let’s go to Brokilon Forest. Because what better way to die, then shot full of arrows by beautiful women?”

“Is that a death wish, or a very specific sexual fantasy?” Geralt asks.

“Why not both, Geralt?”

That elicits another laugh from Geralt, the sound of which fills Jaskier with so much joy, he almost doesn’t care that they may be walking to their deaths.

***

They walk for most of the day side by side, with Geralt holding Roach's reins. Relieved to be on good terms with Geralt again, Jaskier chatters happily about whatever comes to mind and occasionally sings whatever song has popped into his head. Geralt is his normal quiet self, but hums gently in response, his face soft whenever he looks at Jaskier. Jaskier doesn’t know if the witcher is genuinely not annoyed by his babble, or is hiding it well, but he’s not going to ask. It’s a beautiful day, cold but sunny, they’ll be reunited with Ciri soon, and Jaskier’s desperate, hopeless infatuation with Geralt may not be so hopeless. If these are the last hours of Jaskier’s life, at least he’s going out on a high note.

He’s singing a little ditty about the various charms of dwarven maidens when Geralt says suddenly, “Jaskier, enough.”

Jaskier falters. It’s the first time Geralt has shushed him all day.

Geralt dismounts from Roach and lets go of her reins, leaving the mare standing docile near a tree. “We’re here.”

Jaskier looks out at the expanse of flat, snowy space in front of them. He lets out a choked little noise when he realizes what he thought was a rock is actually a human skeleton half-submerged in the snow. An arrow sticks out of the empty eye socket. Scanning the field, he sees other dark shapes in the snow that are probably more skeletons, not that he plans on getting close enough to find out.

“I guess they really don’t like company,” Jaskier says weakly.

“Stay behind me. And leave your knife with Roach.” To Jaskier’s surprise, Geralt takes off his weapons and stashes them in the saddle bags. At Jaskier’s shocked look, he explains, “You don’t walk into Brokilon Forest armed.”

“I’m starting to think you shouldn’t walk into Brokilon Forest at all.” For the first time, Jaskier notices that Geralt only has one sword. “What happened to your second sword?”

“Hm?” For a moment, Geralt looks confused. “Oh, I gave my silver sword to Mousesack. He has to travel through an area with a griffin problem to get to Aretuza.”

“I thought he was going to Ban Ard.”

“One or the other. I get them mixed up.” Geralt shrugs. “You can stay here with Roach.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “I’m not letting you go in there alone.”

He expects an argument, but Geralt just nods and starts across the field towards Brokilon Forest. The dying afternoon light causes the trees to cast long, thin shadows on the snow. It makes for a menacing picture and Jaskier shivers. He keeps close to Geralt, wincing whenever he feels a crunch underfoot. He’s careful not to look down.

They’re halfway across the field when an arrow whizzes by, so close that Jaskier feels the rush of displaced air against his cheek. He flinches.

“Just a warning shot.” Geralt raises his hands in surrender and raises his voice. “My name is Geralt of Rivia. I’m here for a girl you have in your care, Princess Cirilla of Cintra. She and I are bound by the Law of Surprise. Let my companion and I enter and we will do you no harm.”

The trees are silent and still. No more arrows come flying at them, but neither do any friendly dryads pop their heads out of the forest to welcome them.

“Be ready to duck.” Geralt takes another tentative step forward, hands still raised.

“I’m always ready to duck.” Jaskier is so close to Geralt that he keeps stepping on the witcher’s heels, but Geralt doesn’t so much as glower at him.

They make it to the treeline without incident. Jaskier doesn’t see any dryads surrounding them, but he knows they’re there. He can feel the weight of unseen malevolent gazes on him and he’s never felt so vulnerable. One twitch of a dryad’s finger, and he’s dead. Several figures emerge from the trees. They’re all stunningly beautiful, scowling, and armed with bows and arrows or spears. He counts six of them as they surround Geralt and Jaskier, though he’s sure there are more of them lurking out of sight.

“Who are you, humans?” one of the dryads, a striking blonde, demands in accented common.

“There are no humans here,” Geralt says calmly. “I am Geralt of Rivia, a witcher of the School of the Wolf. This is Julian Alfred Pankratz, an elf. We mean you no harm and we seek safe passage. We’re only here for the girl. She’s been promised to me by the Law of Surprise.”

The blonde’s lip curls. “What would a man like you want with a young girl?”

Geralt doesn’t so much as flinch at the clear implication, though Jaskier bristles. “To keep her safe.”

“There is nowhere safer than Brokilon Forest.”

“Not for her.”

The dryads press in closer and without realizing what he’s doing, Jaskier curls his fingers in the back of Geralt’s shirt, like a child holding onto his mother’s skirts.

“The Law of Surprise is a human law,” one of the dryads behind Jaskier says and he feels the tip of a spear touch the back of his neck. “We do not bow to human laws.”

“It’s not a human law,” Geralt says. “It’s a law of destiny. You all know the consequences for refusing destiny. Queen Calanthe of Cintra tried, and her kingdom fell. Don’t make the same mistakes she did.”

The dryads confer among themselves in Elder. They seem to reach a decision that displeases the blonde dryad greatly, because she snarls at the men and turns to stalk away. The dryad holding the spear to Jaskier’s neck prods him, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to make it clear she wants him to move. He complies, shunting Geralt along ahead of him. He mimics the witcher and keeps his hands raised in surrender as they walk deeper into the forest. With every step, he expects an arrow to his throat or a spear to his back, but the dryads don’t seem actively hostile, just cautious.

“Who enters our forest?” a voice asks and Jaskier looks up to see a woman watching them. Something about the way she holds herself immediately tells him that she’s the dryad in charge.

“They say they’re here for the girl, Eithne,” one of the dryads says. “The witcher has been bound to her by the Law of Surprise.”

Eithne’s lips thin. “Ciri has chosen to stay with us.”

“There’s no choice involved when it comes to Law of Surprise,” Geralt says flatly.

If Eithne is going to argue, she never gets a chance, because a beautifully familiar voice cries, “Jaskier!” He looks up to see Ciri--a bit bruised and gaunt, but alive--running towards him. The dryads part for her as she throws her arms around his waist. Jaskier laughs and takes a stumbling step backwards, but just manages not to impale himself on a spear.

“You’re alive,” Ciri breathes into his doublet. “How?”

“I got lucky. Geralt saved me.” He steers her around so she’s facing Geralt. “Your Highness, allow me to introduce Geralt of Rivia. Geralt, this is Princess Cirilla.”

Ciri looks at Geralt with wide eyes. “You were in my dream. My grandmother told me to find you.”

Geralt inclines his head, looking stiff and uncomfortable.

“You’re not what I expected,” she says.

Keeping one arm around Ciri, Jaskier claps Geralt on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, he’s not half as scary as he looks. I even get him to smile once in a while.”

Ciri glances at a coltish boy with brown skin and cautious dark eyes peering out from under a red hat. “Dara, this is Jaskier. He’s the music tutor I was telling you about. Jaskier, this is my friend Dara.”

"A pleasure to meet you, Dara." Jaskier glows at the fact that Ciri thought to tell her new friend about him.

“Child, a word,” Eithne calls.

Geralt bristles as Ciri goes to the dryad. Jaskier places a steadying hand on his arm. Ciri and Eithne speak in low voices for several moments, their foreheads almost touching. Eithne’s expression is full of tenderness and Jaskier feels his first glimmer of doubt. Is it really the right thing, to take Ciri away from this beautiful forest and these warrior women who are all ready to defend her at any cost? She could have a good life here, a peaceful life. But when Ciri turns back to Jaskier and Geralt, her expression is open and sure. Behind her, Dara looks significantly less sure, but he still follows her, eyeing Geralt and Jaskier warily.

“Dara’s coming with us,” Ciri tells Jaskier.

“Of course.” Jaskier doesn’t look at Geralt, though he has a feeling the witcher isn’t pleased by this news. He offers Dara a welcoming smile, and is rewarded with the faintest curve of the boy’s mouth. “The more, the merrier.”

Ciri leans against him and Jaskier slips an arm around her. She never struck him as an especially cuddly child. Calanthe certainly never seemed like one to encourage cuddles. But after the week she’s had, it’s no wonder she’s seeking out a familiar adult.

“Let’s get you home, princess,” he murmurs, even though he has no idea where that home is anymore.

***

When Geralt wakes up, the first thing he notices that he’s in a bed that smells of straw and lye soap. The second thing is that night has fallen; the only light in the room is a single flickering candle on his bedside table. The third thing is that Yennefer of Vengerberg is sitting at the foot of his bed, watching him with an inscrutable expression.

“You’re alive,” she says, and her icy demeanor is worlds away from the half-remembered cries of, _“You will not die on me, Geralt. Do you understand me? You will not die.”_ Maybe it was just a dream. Everything is pleasantly fuzzy.

“Where are we?” he asks.

“A farmhouse, outside of Sodden,” Yennefer says. “The occupants must have evacuated to get away from Nilfgaard.”

Nilfgaard. That sparks something in Geralt’s memory.

Yennefer rises to her feet. “Nilfgaard is invading Sodden next. A group of us from Aretuza are gathering at Sodden Hill to try and hold them off. But I had to find you first.”

Geralt blinks at her. There’s no warmth in her expression. “Why?”

She sighs. “I told you, Geralt, I don’t want you dead.”

“Would be a good way to take care of the djinn wish.”

“Don’t joke about that.” Her voice grows sharp.

He winces. “Sorry, Yenn.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I tracked you all over Cintra, but I always seemed to just miss you. Finally, I caught your trail in a burned out Cintran refugee camp. I portaled to you just in time. If I’d been a moment later, you would have bled out.”

Geralt closes his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Geralt, was that genuine appreciation? Right after a sincere apology? Who’s been teaching you manners?”

“Jaskier.”

“Who’s Jaskier?”

“A bard I met in Cintra.” Geralt thinks of the hurt expression on Jaskier’s face. Gods, he’s glad he left the bard safely behind in the village.

Because Mousesack stabbed Geralt. Mousesack, who wasn’t actually Mousesack, but a doppler.

A doppler who is on his way to Brokilon Forest to get Ciri.

The pleasant fuzziness in Geralt’s mind clears and he sits straight up, swinging his legs out of bed.

“Oh, absolutely not.” Yennefer puts her hands on his shoulders. “Did you miss the part where you just nearly bled out? You’re not fit to travel.”

“I was stabbed by a doppler that looked like Mousesack. It’s on its way to Brokilon Forest now to retrieve Ciri.”

To Yennefer’s credit, she doesn’t waste time asking questions, even though Geralt isn’t sure if she knows who Mousesack and Ciri are. “It will never get into Brokilon Forest. The dryads won’t welcome an outsider.”

“It will if it looks like me. I’m bound to Ciri by the Law of Surprise. The dryads will have no choice but to relinquish her. Fuck, where are my clothes?”

“Geralt, you’re still weak—”

“There’s no time!” Geralt realizes he’s shouting and takes a deep breath to calm himself. There’s a reason witchers are taught to suppress their emotions. Panic is as sure a killer as any blade. “Thank you for healing me. But Ciri is in danger. I have to get to her before the doppler does.”

Yennefer doesn’t budge.

“If it weren’t important, I would stay in bed,” Geralt says.

“No, you wouldn’t. You’re the most ungrateful patient I’ve ever had, and it gets worse every time you nearly die.”

Geralt wonders if Jaskier and Yennefer will be the best of friends, or if they’ll loathe each other, and then he wonders why he cares. He’s never going to see Jaskier again; he made sure of that. “Ciri is my responsibility, Yenn. My child surprise. She’s in danger. I need to go.”

“Fucking witchers.” Yennefer groans. “I will portal you outside of Brokilon Forest. No, I won’t portal you directly into Brokilon Forest. That’s a good way to get us killed.”

Geralt blinks at her. “You’re coming with me?”

“I just put a lot of time and energy into making sure you survive the night, Geralt. I’m not going to let you die now.”

“Thank you.” Shakily, Geralt rises to his feet. “Did the doppler leave me any weapons?”

“I only saw the knife sticking out of your neck.” Yennefer’s brow furrows. “Geralt, I could take care of a doppler on my own. You should—”

“That thing killed my friend, nearly killed me, and is on its way to hurt my child surprise,” Geralt says gruffly. “I’ll kill it with my bare hands if I have to.”

***

Jaskier, Geralt, Ciri, and Dara make camp not far from Brokilon Forest. Geralt seems hesitant to stop, but Jaskier convinces him that it’s for the best. Night is falling and he wants to give Ciri time to get to know the man bound to her by destiny before traipsing through a darkened forest after him. Ciri still seems wary of Geralt, sticking close to Jaskier’s side. As far Dara, he hangs back from the rest of the group, seeming terrified of both Geralt and Jaskier. Jaskier has tried to draw him into conversation a few times, but only gets one-word answers. The boy makes Geralt look downright chatty.

As soon as their camp is set up and the fire is lit, Geralt trudges off into the woods to catch dinner. Ciri watches him go with a cautious expression. “I saw him in my dream the other night,” she says softly. “But he was different.”

“Geralt’s an acquired taste.” Jaskier doesn’t mention that he acquired a taste for the witcher within thirty seconds of meeting him. “But he’s a good man. He saved my life, back in Cintra, and he’s kept me safe since. There’s no safer place to be on the Continent than at his side.”

“You two are friends?” Ciri cocks her head to the side.

“One of the dearest friends I’ve ever had.” Which may say more about Jaskier’s pre-Geralt friends than his friendship with Geralt himself. Growing up the son of an earl, he was discouraged from befriending the peasant children and he hasn’t heard from most of his Oxenfurt chums since graduation.

When Ciri doesn’t say anything, Jaskier says. “Give it a couple of days, princess. You two will warm up to each other. We’ll meet up with Mousesack at Ban Ard and everything will be fine.”

“You shouldn't call me 'princess' anymore.” She stares into the fire, shivering a bit. “I don’t have a kingdom to be princess of.”

Jaskier puts an arm around her. “You don’t need a kingdom to be a princess, Ciri.”

While they wait for Geralt, he and Ciri exchange stories. She tells him all about escaping the Black Knight, meeting Dara in the forest outside of Cintra, fleeing the burning refugee camp, and making her way to Brokilon Forest. In turn, Jaskier tells her a sanitized version of his travels with Geralt. He makes it sound like a ballad, full of adventure and derring-do, and not like the utterly terrifying, often heartbreaking, week it’s been. He’s recounting the ghoul attack, playing up his heroism with the burning branch, when Geralt comes back, holding two dead rabbits. Without a word, Geralt sits down and begins to skin them.

“I can help.” Tentatively, Dara puts out a hand.

Geralt grunts and hands him one of the rabbits. Dara pulls a knife out of his belt and begins to skin the rabbit deftly. Jaskier eyes Geralt. All the uncharacteristic warmth of earlier in the day seems to have bled away, leaving him even stiffer and grumpier than usual. Jaskier doesn’t know whether he’s feeling awkward around his child surprise or if he’s unhappy about the unexpected addition of Dara to their traveling party. Either way, Jaskier plans to have a talk with him. Jaskier knows the witcher well enough to find his surliness endearing, but Ciri and Dara don’t.

Ciri is watching Geralt like a hawk, assessing him. “How did you know my parents?”

Geralt doesn’t look up from the rabbit. “I saved your father’s life, and he offered me the Law of Surprise as recompense.”

“And why did it take you twelve years to claim me?”

“Would you have preferred to grow up on the road, fighting basilisks and manticores, rather than in the palace?”

“I would have liked to have known who I really was,” Ciri says coldly.

“You know who you are. You’re the princess of Cintra.” Geralt stands up. “You take care of cooking dinner. I’ll keep watch.”

Jaskier watches him stride towards the edge of camp. “Can you two cook the rabbits? Geralt and I need to have a chat.”

Ciri and Dara make noises of assent and Jaskier hurries after Geralt, who is standing next to Roach. The horse is still and calm, her eyes still glazed from the effects of Axii. “Geralt,” he says gently. “Look, you know that I find the whole grumpy, but secretly softhearted thing absolutely adorable, right?’

Geralt snorts.

“But Ciri has only known you for a couple of hours, and I think you’re scaring her a little.”

Geralt shrugs. “I told you I’m not good with kids.”

“Don’t think of her as a kid. Think of her as a person who’s had an especially traumatic week and could use a friendly face.”

“That’s what you’re here for.”

Jaskier feels a prickle of irritation. “I’m not the one linked to her by destiny, Geralt.”

Geralt glances over at Ciri and Dara, who are whispering to each other while Dara shows Ciri how to cook the rabbits. “We shouldn’t have brought the elf with us. He’s only going to slow us down.”

“Dara’s an elf?” Jaskier studies the boy, who hasn’t taken off his hat.

“I heard him and Ciri talking. He asked her not to tell us.”

Jaskier must be imagining the disdainful twist of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt doesn’t have a problem with elves. He showed nothing but compassion for the Scoia’tael. “Well, I’m not comfortable leaving a kid alone in the woods, elf or human. And I wasn’t going to leave him with the dryads, who just would have used him to father more dryads. If you don’t want him traveling all the way with us to Ban Ard, fine, but we need to find somewhere safe for him.”

Geralt grunts, but his expression softens as he studies Jaskier. “I’m not trying to be an asshole, Jaskier. I just want to get you and Ciri somewhere safe. That’s my top priority.”

Jaskier sighs. Every time he’s ready to strangle the witcher, Geralt has to go and say something sweet. It’s maddening. “I know, but try to be a little warmer with Ciri. Trust me, I know her. If she doesn't like you, she’s not going to do a damn thing you say without a fight.”

“I’ll do my best.” Geralt hesitates, then reaches for Jaskier, like he’s going to pull him in for another kiss.

Roach lunges forward. Jaskier cries out, expecting to have his nose bitten off, but Roach places herself between Jaskier and Geralt and snaps at Geralt’s face. Geralt leaps back with a curse and casts Axii. The mare goes still again and her head droops.

“Damn donkey.” Geralt pushes Roach’s head away. “I may be trading her in at the next village. Don’t know what’s gotten into her.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt, hoping that the other man attributes his elevated heartbeat and aroma of fear to the near miss with Roach. Roach, who has never seemed to give a damn about Jaskier, just threw herself in between him and Geralt, like she was trying to protect Jaskier. Like she was trying to protect Jaskier from _Geralt._ And Geralt, who dotes on his horse like a mother with her babe, just threatened to trade Roach in.

The weirdness of the day starts to click into place. Geralt’s sudden change of heart and his unexpected warmth towards Jaskier. The sketchiness of the details surrounding Mousesack’s departure. The absence of the silver sword. Geralt keeping Roach subdued with Axii all day.

Jaskier doesn’t know who the person in front of him is, but he’s not Geralt of Rivia.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, please don't be surprised/concerned if from now on, my updates start being published later in the day. I may be going back to work next week, though nothing has been decided yet. If that happens, updates probably won't start coming until after dinnertime (eastern US time.)


	10. silver is for monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you?” Jaskier asks.  
> “It’s a doppler.” Dara’s voice is low. “I’ve heard of them. They’re supposed to be friendly, though.”  
> “Oh, we’re very friendly, when we’re given a reason to be,” not-Geralt says. “How’s this for friendly, Jaskier? You get out of our way, and we’ll kill you and the elven runt quickly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: some dubcon kissing at the beginning

Jaskier thinks he does an admirable job of keeping calm over the next couple of hours. He eats rabbit and banters with Ciri, even managing to draw a few smiles out of the still-reticent Dara. He teases not-Geralt over his grumpy face, just like he would the real Geralt, which makes Ciri giggle. He sings the princess a couple of lullabies and after Ciri and Dara are asleep, tucked together on Jaskier’s bedroll, he tells not-Geralt that he’ll take first watch. Being on guard duty gives him an excuse to retrieve his knife from his knapsack.

“I don’t mind,” not-Geralt says when Jaskier offers.

 _“What did you do to him?”_ Jaskier wants to shout. _“Did you hurt him? Is he alive?”_

Instead, his grip on the knife turns his knuckles white while he says lightly, “I know you’re superhuman, Geralt, but even you need sleep. I’ll wake you up if I start to nod off.”

“You’re sure?”

_“Who are you? What are you? Did you have to kill him to steal his face, or did you leave him tied up somewhere?”_

“It’s more important for you to be in tip-top shape,” Jaskier tells the thing wearing the face of the man he loves. “Let me keep us safe for the night, dear heart.”

_“If you’ve hurt him, I will fucking destroy you.”_

The not-Geralt smiles softly, looking at Jaskier with such open affection that it breaks what’s left of his heart. “Goodnight, Jaskier.”

_“Please tell me he’s okay. Please.”_

Not-Geralt bends down to press a kiss to Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier kisses him back, even as his skin crawls at the touch. He’s suddenly very glad for the presence of the two children only feet away. If he had to do more than kiss this imposter to keep his cover, he would be sick. Not-Geralt pulls away and runs his thumb over Jaskier’s jaw and Jaskier wants to scream. He wants so badly for this to actually be Geralt touching him, kissing him, and looking at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world. And that’s how the imposter kept him fooled all day, isn’t it? He listened to Jaskier, laughed at his jokes, touched him tenderly. He gave Jaskier everything he wanted from Geralt, and Jaskier ate it up.

When not-Geralt turns away, Jaskier closes his eyes and fights the tears he can feel gathering. If the real Geralt were still alive, this imposter never would have gotten this close to Jaskier and Ciri. Jaskier doesn’t want to believe that Geralt is dead, but the evidence is settling down on Geralt’s bedroll right now.

It doesn’t take long for not-Geralt to go still and quiet, which is just another sign that this isn’t Geralt. Geralt never falls asleep quickly and he doesn’t stay asleep easily. In the dying firelight, Jaskier fiddles with his knife and watches the imposter’s peaceful face. It’s a perfect rendering of Geralt, so perfect that Jaskier wonders if this really is Geralt, and he’s just being mind-controlled. But that wouldn’t explain why the imposter got rid of Geralt’s silver weapons.

Jaskier waits a long time, until well after the campfire has died and the night is cold and still around him. From what he’s seen, the imposter has all the strength, speed, and abilities of the real Geralt. Jaskier needs to make sure that not-Geralt is sound asleep before he tries anything. He’s seen enough of Geralt in action to know he doesn’t stand a chance if it comes down to combat.

Finally, when he decides it’s safe to move, Jaskier goes to crouch next to Ciri. Gently, he shakes her awake and as soon as her eyes open, he puts a finger to his lips.

“We need to get out of here,” he whispers. “Wake Dara.”

Ciri glances at Geralt, then back at Jaskier. He shakes his head and her nostrils flare, understanding dawning on her face. As soon as she touches his shoulder, Dara wakes with the instant alertness of someone who has spent too many nights unsafe. Jaskier will be brokenhearted about that later; right now, his heartbreak is reserved for the golden eyes and small, wry smile he’ll never see again. He ushers the kids out of the campsite, leaving everything behind, including his lute and Roach. He feels terrible leaving Roach, but horses don’t move silently, and they can’t risk waking the imposter.

He can tell Ciri is bursting to ask questions, but to her credit, she doesn’t say a word as they slip through the woods. Jaskier’s mind races. Where should they go? Back to Brokilon Forest? Will the dryads shelter them, after Ciri and Dara walked away from them willingly? Towards Ban Ard, and hope the not-Geralt was telling the truth about Mousesack waiting for them there? He and Geralt never discussed where to take Ciri after they found her. Geralt must have had a safe place in mind.

“That’s not Geralt, is it?” Ciri asks in a soft voice.

Jaskier shakes his head. “No.”

“Where’s the real Geralt?”

“Dead.” Jaskier doesn’t realize the imposter is standing directly behind him until he hears Geralt’s low, grumbly voice. He yelps and whirls around.

The imposter takes a step towards him, Geralt’s sword in hand. “We stabbed him in the neck and he bled out in the dirt, just like Mousesack.”

Ciri lets out a little sob and Jaskier pushes her behind him. It takes him a moment to be able to speak, but when he does, he’s proud of how steady his voice is. “Mousesack never escaped the Nilfgaardians, did he?”

Not-Geralt shakes his head.

“Mousesack was a good man,” Jaskier says. “So was Geralt. They didn’t deserve to die. And you don’t deserve to carry Geralt’s sword and wear his medallion.”

“Are you going to take them from us, little bard?”

This smug bastard killed Geralt in cold blood. “What are you?” Jaskier asks.

“It’s a doppler.” Dara’s voice is low. “I’ve heard of them. They’re supposed to be friendly, though.”

“Oh, we’re very friendly, when we’re given a reason to be,” not-Geralt says. “How’s this for friendly, Jaskier? You get out of our way, and we’ll kill you and the elven runt quickly.”

“Ciri, Dara, run,” Jaskier says, not taking his eyes off the doppler. The knife feels small and insubstantial in his grasp. It will do him no good against Geralt’s sword, but maybe it will buy Ciri and Dara enough time to escape.

“I’m not leaving you!” Ciri grabs his hand.

He pulls away from her. “Yes, you are. I’ll hold it off.”

“Oh, we’d love to see that.” The doppler throws back its head and laughs and it’s just like the gorgeous laugh back at the inn, the one that made Jaskier so happy. He realizes he never got to hear Geralt laugh like that and he almost collapses into a weeping puddle.

Behind Jaskier, Ciri and Dara haven’t moved. “Dara, get her out of here,” Jaskier says.

He hears a scuffle, probably Dara trying to pull Ciri away and the princess resisting.

“We really didn’t want to have to kill you yet, Jaskier.” Not-Geralt reaches out and runs a thumb over Jaskier’s cheek. This time, Jaskier doesn’t bother to hide his shudder at the touch. “Do you know how badly your witcher wanted you?”

“Fuck you,” Jaskier snarls.

“Poor, foolish Geralt of Rivia. We bet you were the last thing he thought about before he bled out alone on the side of the—”

Jaskier lunges. He aims his knife directly for not-Geralt’s heart. The doppler parries the blow with Geralt’s sword, knocking the blade from Jaskier’s hand. Jaskier barely has time to regret his decision before the doppler seizes him by the doublet and hurls him to the ground. Not-Geralt puts a foot on his chest and presses down hard enough to drive the air from Jaskier’s lungs. The tip of the sword touches Jaskier’s throat, right where the Nilfgaardian soldier cut him only a week ago. Jaskier looks up into beautiful golden eyes and sees no humanity there.

“If it’s a consolation, he died thinking you were safe,” the doppler says. “He wanted to protect you so badly. He never knew how much he failed.”

The blade presses harder against Jaskier’s throat and he can’t stop a strangled, frightened noise from escaping his lips. Not-Geralt bares its teeth in a triumphant smile, just as Ciri lets out an ear-shattering scream and the world goes white.

***

Geralt and Yennefer slowly make their way towards Brokilon Forest, hands raised in surrender. With every step, Geralt waits for the first arrow the dryads will fire at them, the warning shot. They’ll only get one warning shot, and then they’ll be peppered with arrows if the dryads don’t like what Geralt has to say. For a moment, Geralt allows himself to wish that Jaskier was with them so he could do the talking. Geralt isn’t exactly a master of persuasion and Yennefer is at her most eloquent when telling people to fuck off.

Instead of a warning shot, Geralt is surprised when a dryad steps to the edge of the forest to greet them. “You were already allowed entry into Brokilon Forest once today, Geralt of Rivia, and walked away with your life. You cannot ask for that mercy twice.”

Geralt knew it was foolish to hope to beat the doppler to Ciri. “That was an imposter, a doppler. I’m here for Princess Ciri, my child surprise.”

If the dryad is concerned to learn that a doppler trespassed into her forest, she doesn’t show it. “The doppler and its companion left with the princess hours ago, just before nightfall.”

Geralt’s heart stills in his chest. “Its companion?”

“A young man. The girl called him Jaskier.”

“Which way did they go?” Yennefer asks, because Geralt can’t speak. Not only does the doppler have Ciri, it has Jaskier. It most likely intends to bring Ciri to Nilfgaard, so it will keep her alive. But Jaskier? The doppler will have Geralt’s witcher strength. Jaskier won’t be a match for it.

“South,” the dryad says. “They aren’t camped far from here.”

Geralt turns and begins to head south, not bothering with thank yous or goodbyes. All he can think of is trusting, lovestruck Jaskier leaning in for a kiss and getting his neck broken. Or cuddling up next to the doppler on his bedroll and finding a knife in his gut. Would he die thinking that Geralt was the one to hurt him?

“Geralt of Rivia?” the dryad calls and Geralt pauses. Her serene expression hasn’t changed. “That girl is special. You must protect her at all costs.”

“I intend to,” Geralt says, but the words are lost as a piercing scream fills night, sending dark clouds of birds rising from the trees. Geralt feels the scream in his bones and reaches for his medallion to see if it’s vibrating, then remembers that the doppler took that too.

That answers his questions about whether Ciri has her mother’s powers.

Geralt breaks into a run.

***

When Jaskier’s vision clears, his head is pounding and there’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He looks around and finds Ciri standing in front of him, eyes wild with fear. Behind her, Dara is climbing to his feet shakily. And Geralt--no, the doppler--is stirring on the ground, the sword it stole from Geralt lying next to its head.

Ciri is saying something, but he can’t hear anything over the terrible ringing. Still, he clambers into a kneeling position, then slowly stands. The world is fuzzy around him and the ground seems to be moving beneath his feet.

“Jaskier, run!” Ciri’s voice finally cuts through the ringing. “We need to run!”

Jaskier sees the doppler start to sit up and running suddenly seems like an amazing plan. He seizes his knife from the ground and follows Ciri and Dara at a sprint. Something about the burning in his lungs and the cold air hitting his face clears Jaskier’s head a little. His skull feels like it’s about to explode, but the ringing is subsiding, at least. Did Ciri really make that noise? How did he manage to miss the fact that his student had a literal brain-splitting scream?

“It’s behind us!” Dara calls, voice cracking, and Jaskier looks over his shoulder. The doppler isn’t running, just striding through the trees with sure, measured steps. In the darkness, Jaskier can’t see its expression, but he can imagine the smugness there.

Jaskier can already feel his legs tiring and he’s sure Dara and Ciri won’t hold out for much longer. But the doppler won’t slow down. It won’t tire. It will keep coming, until it catches them.

“Ciri,” Jaskier gasps, stumbling to a halt. “Go to Brokilon Forest. The dryads will protect you.”

Ciri turns to him, eyes wide. “You’re coming too!”

He shakes his head. “I’m going to try to hold it off.”

“But—”

“Ciri, please. If that thing gets you, this is all for nothing. Mousesack and Geralt will have died for nothing.”

Her mouth trembles and she throws her arms around him. “I’ll get the dryads. We’ll come back with reinforcements.”

Jaskier forces an encouraging smile. The dryads will hopefully take mercy on Dara and Ciri and provide them with shelter, but he knows they won’t come to the aid of a strange man who put their charges in danger. And even if they do, he remembers how fast Geralt took care of the Nilfgaardian soldiers in Cintra and the ghouls. By the time the dryads come, Jaskier will be long dead. “Go,” he tells her. “Everything will be okay.”

She nods jerkily before fleeing after Dara. Hoping that the darkness conceals how badly his legs are shaking, Jaskier turns to face the doppler.

“No little princess to save you this time,” the doppler says. “Think you can beat us, bardling?”

“Probably not.” Jaskier wishes he paid more attention in his boyhood fencing lessons, not that this little knife is anywhere close to a rapier. Still, he tries to strike a fighting stance.

Not-Geralt chuckles. “We can smell how terrified you are.”

“And I can smell that you haven’t bathed today, but I wasn’t going to bring it up.”

With a lazy flick of its wrist, the doppler casts Aard. Jaskier is shoved backwards, his back slamming into a tree. The knife falls out of his hand and before he can retrieve it, the doppler has him pinned against the tree, the sword pressed against his throat. Not-Geralt’s face is only a hair-breadth from Jaskier. He can feel the doppler’s breath on his cheek when it speaks.

“Don’t you know, you can’t kill a doppler with a steel blade. Steel is for humans, silver is for monsters. We killed your witcher with silver, like he deserved.”

Jaskier looks away from that mocking smile.

“Do you think if we make you scream, the princess will come running to save you?” the doppler asks.

“I’m not going to scream.”

“Oh, I don’t think that’s true.” The doppler presses the flat of Geralt’s sword against Jaskier’s cheek and forces him to look directly into its face “There are plenty of ways to make you scream.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. “Do whatever you want to me. I won’t help you get to Ciri.”

“We both know you’re lying, Jaskier.” The doppler’s wheedling tone sounds so wrong in Geralt’s voice. “You’re not a brave man. By the time this is over, you’re going to scream. You’re going to cry. You’re going to beg.”

“Fuck you,” Jaskier whispers, because he can’t think of anything more badass to say. His thoughts are dissolving into an inarticulate babble of panic as the tip of the sword rests under his eye.

“And you know, you have a beautiful face.” The doppler caresses Jaskier’s face with one large hand, dragging its thumb across his lips. “When this is all over, we can’t wait to take it as our own.”

***

Geralt crashes through the woods in the direction of the scream. He knows he’s making too much noise. He’s not thinking before running into battle. But Ciri and Jaskier are in danger and all he cares about is getting to them.

Yennefer portals in front of him. Out of breath, she almost looks disheveled. “Now would be a good time to tell me exactly what’s going on, Geralt.”

“No time.”

“Geralt, did you feel the magic in that scream? That was raw chaos.”

“That was Ciri. We can talk about that later, Yenn. Right now—” Geralt falls silent as he hears two racing heartbeats approaching. He draws his knife just as two figures come crashing through the trees. The first is a lanky boy in a red cap. He stops dead when he sees Geralt, eyes widening in terror. The second, smaller person looks up at Geralt with tear-filled green eyes.

“It’s you,” Ciri says softly.

Before he can answer, Ciri throws herself into his arms. Geralt blinks down at the top of her head. He’s not used to people touching him willingly, and he’s especially not used to them embracing him like this. At an exasperated look from Yennefer, he puts his arms around the girl. She’s shaking in his arms and he can feel her heart racing.

“It has Jaskier,” she says against Geralt’s chest. “He was going to try and slow it down. You have to save him!”

“Where?” Geralt demands.

“That way.” Ciri points in the direction she and the boy came from. “They’re not far.”

“Stay with them,” Geralt tells Yennefer, and runs in the direction Ciri is pointing. It feels wrong to leave his child surprise after finally finding her, but this is Jaskier.

He smells the fear just as he hears his own voice say, “There are plenty of ways to make you scream.”

“Do whatever you want to me. I won’t help you get to Ciri.”

Geralt slows his step, grip tightening on his knife. He keeps his footfalls light on the ground until he sees them. The doppler has Jaskier shoved against a tree, a sword pressed to his face. Jaskier is doing his best to hide his terror, but Geralt can see the way his legs tremble and he can hear the panicked thrum of his heartbeat. The smell of fear is heavy and sour in the air as the doppler murmurs threats in Jaskier’s ear. Geralt moves closer, keeping his footfalls light on the ground.

“Fuck you.” Jaskier’s voice cracks.

The doppler strokes Jaskier’s face. “And you know, you have a beautiful face. When this is all over, we can’t wait to take it as our own.”

Jaskier’s eyes meet Geralt’s over the doppler’s shoulder and Geralt freezes. He expects Jaskier to cry out or gasp, giving Geralt’s presence away, but the bard looks away. The only tell is the slight increase in his heart rate.

“You’re not ready for this face, asshole,” Jaskier says and bites down on the doppler's hand. The doppler lets out a startled yell and Geralt takes advantage of its distraction, lunging forward and driving his silver knife into the side of its neck, right where it stabbed Geralt that morning.

“That was for Mousesack,” he growls in the doppler’s ears as its stolen visage falls away, revealing its monstrous appearance. He lets it crumple to the ground and watches it until it stops twitching and its eyes glaze over in death.

“Geralt?” There’s a waver of uncertainty in Jaskier’s voice.

“Are you alright?” Geralt looks him over for any visible injuries. All he sees is a shallow cut on Jaskier’s cheek and an unfocused look in his eyes that suggests a concussion.

Instead of replying, Jaskier throws his arms around Geralt. “I thought you were dead,” he says into Geralt’s shoulder. “It told me it killed you.”

“I didn’t die,” Geralt says stupidly. The fear smell is receding, leaving Jaskier’s normal lavender and chamomile scent. Fuck, he smells good.

Jaskier laughs wetly. “I knew it wasn’t you as soon as it called Roach a donkey.”

Geralt aims a kick at the dead doppler’s head. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Jaskier shakes his head, then winces.“Well, my head is killing me. Ciri and Dara—”

“Safe. They’re with a friend. I think you have a concussion. Did you hit your head?”

“I think so.” Jaskier looks down at the doppler. “That thing kissed me, Geralt. Not the worst romantic decision I’ve ever made, I guess. Valdo Marx still takes that cake.”

Geralt can hear the edge of hysteria in his voice. “Everyone’s okay, Jaskier. You kept Ciri safe. You did good.”

Jaskier nods jerkily, then winces again. “Thanks for coming back for me.”

“I wouldn’t leave you behind.”

Jaskier gives him a pointed look and Geralt feels a hot rush of shame. He already left Jaskier once today, and that decision nearly got both of them killed. He reaches out to away the droplets of blood trickling down Jaskier’s face. “Jaskier, I—”

“Geralt, this may come as a shock to you, but I have better things to do than look after your child surprise and her new friend.” Yennefer’s voice is sharp with annoyance and Geralt looks around to see her striding towards him, Ciri and Dara trailing after her. When she sees Geralt and Jaskier, her eyebrows shoot up.

Geralt realizes how this must look, with him holding Jaskier against him like a lover and stroking his cheek. He quickly lets go of the bard and bends to retrieve his weapons and medallion from the doppler's corpse.

“If you’re done cuddling, can we go get your horse and get out of here?” Yennefer demands. “Some of us have a battle to get to.”

***

By the time they get back to the farmhouse that Geralt’s scary purple-eyed friend is commandeering, Jaskier’s head is hurting so bad that he can’t see straight. He’s pretty sure he’s fine, though all three of the Geralts in front of Jaskier tell him that he has a concussion. Jaskier isn’t sure how he gets there, but he ends up flat on his back in a bed with three purple-eyed sorceresses standing over him, frowning down at him.

“Oh, stop fussing, Geralt,” the sorceresses say. “This is barely a bump on the head. I’ll have him good as new within the hour.”

She’s very pretty and she smells very nice. Jaskier thinks regretfully that this is the first time he’s been in bed with a beautiful woman in weeks, so of course she’s terrifying. She smiles down at him and for a second, he thinks maybe she isn’t actually that scary.

“Bardling, I could make your brain bleed out your ears with a thought,” she says sweetly. “Put your eyeballs back in your head.”

Never mind, she’s terrifying.

Jaskier must fall asleep, because when he wakes up, his head doesn’t hurt anymore and there’s only one Geralt and one scary sorceress in the room. They stand in the doorway, talking in low voices.

“You should come help,” the sorceress says. “We’re vastly outnumbered until the Temerian forces arrive. We need all the help we can get.”

“I can’t leave Ciri and Jaskier. And I don’t get involved in the conflicts of men, Yennefer.”

“Except for when you do?” Jaskier can’t see the sorceress’ face, but he can hear the acid lacing her tone.

“You don’t have to go. I could use the help getting Ciri and Jaskier somewhere safe.”

“I’m not your nursemaid, Geralt. Someone has to stop Nilfgaard from advancing into Sodden, or all the Northern Kingdoms will fall. It’s all well and good to keep one lost princess safe, but there are tens of thousands of people in Nilfgaard’s path who aren’t bound to witchers by the Law of Surprise.”

Geralt and Yennefer are both quiet for a moment.

“Be well, Yennefer,” Geralt says after a moment. “And thank you.”

“Take better care of your strays from here on out, Geralt.”

If Geralt replies, Jaskier doesn’t hear it. A portal opens up behind Yennefer and she steps through it.

“She seems nice,” Jaskier says. “I take it there’s a story there?”

Geralt grunts. “Not anymore. How’s your head?”

“Feels fine. Your scary friend knows what she’s doing.”

“I’ll be sure to pass on your regards, next time I see her.” Geralt turns towards him and Jaskier sees that the witcher looks exhausted.

“Are Ciri and Dara asleep?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt nods. “You should get some sleep too.”

“Where are you sleeping?”

“I have my bedroll downstairs.”

“No need.” Jaskier scoots over. “This bed is plenty big for two.”

“I don’t want to jostle your head.”

“My head is fine. Please?” Not long ago, Jaskier was sure that Geralt was dead. The thought of having Geralt out of his sight sends a bolt of anxiety through him.

“Okay.” Geralt comes to sit on the edge of the bed, but doesn’t lay down. Something in his expression is guarded.

“Where is Yennefer going?” Jaskier asks.

“Sodden Hill. A group of mages from Aretuza are going to try to stop Nilfgaard from advancing further north.”

“And you didn’t want to go help her?”

“My place is here, with Ciri. And I’m not going to leave you again.” Geralt stares down at the floor. “I’m sorry. Leaving you behind was a mistake.”

“Yeah, it was.” Jaskier is too full of conflicting emotions. He’s so relieved to see Geralt alive, but he’s also still furious at him for abandoning him to a merchant caravan. He wants to hug Geralt again, to hold him until he’s really sure that he’s actually here. He also wants to shout at him until Geralt feels almost as bad as he made Jaskier feel that morning.

“It won’t happen again,” Geralt says. “If you decide you want to return to Oxenfurt or Lettenhove, I’ll help you get there. But I won’t send you away again. As long as you still want to travel with me.”

He looks so uncertain that Jaskier can feel his anger softening. “Of course I still want to travel with you, Geralt. Everything I said to you this morning still applies.”

“Everything?”

“Everything.”

Geralt hesitates, mouth opening like he’s going to say something. But instead of the declaration of love (or at least affection) Jaskier was hoping for, the witcher grunts and blows out the candle on the bedside table. “We should get some sleep.”

Jaskier hopes the darkness hides his disappointment. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight.” The bed creaks as Geralt settles down next to him, a warm, comforting presence. They’re not touching, but just having him there is reassuring and Jaskier nods off to sleep almost immediately.

Jaskier doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when the sound of an explosion wakes him. He bolts upright, reaching out blindly for something to use as a weapon. A hand on his chest stills him.

“It’s okay,” Geralt says softly. In the darkness, Jaskier can only make out the faint outline of his face. “It’s miles away. We’re safe.”

“What is it?” Jaskier grimaces at the sound of another explosion. Out the window, he can see what looks like a fireball sailing through the air in the distance.

“Sodden Hill,” Geralt says. “The battle has started.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Geralt and Jaskier need to have A Real Conversation and Geralt and Ciri need a proper introduction, but I couldn't get either of those scenes to cooperate, so they got bumped to the next chapter. Sorry to make you put up with Geralt being emotionally constipated for another chapter, but that's Geralt for you.


	11. nothing short of Nilfgaard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.  
> Geralt is already on his feet, reaching for his swords. “People are approaching. Some on foot, some on horseback. At least a dozen.”  
> “Could it be the family who lives here?”  
> “It’s not a family. All men. Nilfgaardian accents. Get Ciri and Dara to the woods. Hide. Don’t come out until I call you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware of the updated rating! I don't normally write smut, but I decided to try my hand at some rather mild smut this chapter. I don't know if it quite earns the Explicit rating, but I decided better safe than sorry.

As they listen to the sounds of the battle in the distance, Jaskier presses close to Geralt. He expects the witcher to push him away, but instead Geralt puts his arms around him. Jaskier takes it as permission to snuggle against Geralt’s chest. He saw a fireworks show once at Oxenfurt. It was one of the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. Maybe if he closes his eyes, he can pretend that it’s fireworks lighting up the trees outside the window.

“Are you sure we’re safe here?” Jaskier asks.

“No, but it’s too risky to travel when there are thousands of Nilfgaardians nearby.”

“I was looking for reassurance, Geralt.”

Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier. His slow, rhythmic heartbeat is soothing under Jaskier's cheek. “I don’t think the soldiers will bother with looting a lone farmhouse, not when there are villages nearby. But if they do come, I’ll be waiting for them.”

There’s another explosion and Jaskier winces. “Why did you leave me behind?”

“You want to talk about this now?”

“I need a distraction. Righteous indignation is distracting.”

Geralt snorts. “The doppler talked me into it.”

“Ah yes, blame the dead guy. Don’t give me that. And please don’t give me that bullshit about wanting to keep me safe.”

“I do want to keep you safe.”

“But that’s not why you left me behind.”

Geralt’s breath tickles his ear. “I’m used to doing things on my own, Jaskier. Normally, I only have to worry about what’s best for me and Roach. When the Law of Surprise happened, it took me twelve years to accept the fact that there was another life bound to me. I’d just accepted responsibility for Ciri, and then you came along. And you were loud. You were annoying. You needed things.”

“I’m sorry, Geralt, is this supposed to be an apology?”

“I already apologized. This is an explanation. When we left Cintra, my only goal was to find Ciri and make sure she was safe. But somehow, your safety has become just as important to me. You matter to me more than I ever thought you would. It makes me act foolishly.”

“And so you panicked?”

“Witchers don’t panic.” Geralt pauses. “But yes, I panicked.”

“Caring about people is always scary, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “It’s one of the scariest things you can do.”

“You don’t seem scared.”

“Oh, I am. But it’s a good kind of scared.” Jaskier takes a deep breath. “I know you don’t feel the same way about me, Geralt. And it’s okay. I just want to be a part of your life. As your friend, your lover, or just that annoying bard that follows you around. Either way—”

Geralt kisses him and oh, this is so much more distracting than righteous indignation. Jaskier melts into the kiss, his mouth exploring Geralt’s. Geralt nips at Jaskier’s bottom lip, then begins kissing his neck. The witcher’s hands smooth over Jaskier’s chest and down his stomach and Jaskier arches into the touch. Fuck, if Geralt had kissed him like this last night, he never would have been fooled by the doppler’s kisses this morning. Geralt’s hand slips between his thighs and all thoughts of the doppler vanish.

Geralt is looking at him with a question in his eyes, one hand resting on Jaskier’s inner thigh. Jaskier can feel the heat of Geralt’s palm through the fabric of his breeches.

“If we do this, you can’t panic and run away again,” he says softly. “Please.”

Geralt presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth and it’s achingly gentle. “You’re wrong. I do feel the same way about you.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his throat. “Oh.”

“So I’m not going anywhere. Nothing short of Nilfgaard will take me away.”

“We really need to work on your pillow talk, Geralt.”

There’s another explosion in the distance and light floods the tiny room. Geralt’s face is briefly illuminated and he’s smiling. A real smile, with teeth. Jaskier surges up to capture that smile with his mouth and feeling the curve of Geralt’s lips against his is nearly as sexy as the hand creeping higher on his thigh.

He pulls his mouth away from Geralt’s just long enough to gasp, “Oil’s in my bag."

“Mm.” Geralt’s hands begin unlacing the front of Jaskier's breeches. “Not yet.”

“Geralt, I’m not a patient per--oh fuck.” All protests die as Geralt’s hand closes around his cock.

Jaskier isn’t sure what he expected from Geralt in bed, but it wasn’t playfulness. But Geralt seems to delight in teasing Jaskier, bringing him to the edge with his mouth and hands over and over again until Jaskier can only moan into his arm to muffle the noise.

“I’m going to die, Geralt,” he manages to say. “And you’re going to have no one to blame but—”

The witcher does something truly remarkable with his tongue and Jaskier forgets what he was going to say. He’s fairly certain he forgets his own name.

Finally, when Geralt has finally taken pity on Jaskier and lets him find his release, he goes and gets the damn oil. Jaskier is relieved, until it turns into just another opportunity for Geralt to torment him further, as he takes his time opening Jaskier up with his fingers.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says through gritted teeth. “If I wanted to be _tortured_ , I would go back to Oxenfurt and attend one of Valdo Marx’s performances.”

He can’t see Geralt’s expression, but the witcher radiates smugness. “You didn’t seem to be complaining a few minutes ago.”

“I believe in suffering stoically. Stiff upper lip, and all that.”

“Your upper lip isn’t what’s stiff right now.”

“Geralt, was that a dick joke? I am so pr—” Geralt finally slides into him and Jaskier loses the ability to speak for several glorious minutes.

When they’re done, and Jaskier is a boneless heap face-down on the bed, with Geralt’s weight half on top of him, he twists his head to plant a kiss on Geralt’s shoulder. “As far as distractions go, that was quite effective.”

“Mm.” Geralt nuzzles behind Jaskier’s ear. “I’ve wanted to do that since the night after the Scoia’tael attack.”

“You mean the night I sang ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher?’ I knew you secretly liked that song.”

“The song is shit, but you looked damn good singing it.”

Jaskier grins into his pillow. “I’ll be offended by that statement in the morning.”

“I’m sure you will be,” Geralt says, and Jaskier can hear the smile in his voice. “Go back to sleep, Jaskier. No one’s getting anywhere near this house without me hearing them coming.”

And despite the sounds of explosions in the distance, Jaskier does.

***

Geralt doesn’t mean to sleep, but he wakes to the gray light of early morning and a snoring Jaskier curled against his side. Geralt allows himself a moment to look at the sleeping man, smirking as Jaskier snorts and snuffles. He can no longer hear explosions in the distance, but the smell of smoke and death is heavy in the air and he doubts the battle is finished. Geralt thinks of Yennefer, and hopes she’s okay. He owes her his life, as well as Jaskier and Ciri’s lives. Someday, he hopes he can repay that debt.

Gently, he disentangles himself from Jaskier, which is easier said than done. For someone with only four limbs, Jaskier can cling harder than a hungry kikimore. Jaskier groans as Geralt slips out of bed, but doesn’t wake. Geralt drops a kiss on his cheek and heads out to the stables to find Roach.

The mare is clearly angry at him about the events of the day before. She turns her head away pointedly when he enters her stall. He takes his time brushing her, murmuring softly to her and even feeding her a few sugar cubes to get back in her good graces. Eventually, she deigns to allow him to rub her nose.

“I’m sorry about the Axii,” he tells her. “It won’t happen again.”

She snorts, unimpressed by his apology.

“If you didn’t try to bite everyone, I would know the difference between you biting someone because they were a threat and you biting because you feel like it.”

She gently nips at his finger in retaliation.

Geralt hears the soft footsteps approaching, but he doesn’t turn as Ciri pauses in the doorway of the stables. He can tell she’s building up the nerve to approach him, so he gives no indication that he’s noticed her until she asks, “Can witchers communicate with animals?”

He glances back at her and sees her watching him and Roach with bright, curious eyes. “Anyone can communicate with animals if they pay attention.”

“But you can’t read her mind?”

“No. Don’t have to. She tells me everything she’s thinking.”

Roach nips at him harder, apparently irritated that he’s been distracted from petting her nose. Ciri giggles. “Can I pet her?” she asks.

Normally, Geralt would say no, but Roach seems to be in a docile mood and she’s already eyeing the girl curiously. So he sighs and hands Ciri a sugar cube. “Watch your fingers. She can get nippy.”

Ciri holds out the sugar cube to Roach on a flat palm, smiling when Roach takes it gently. The girl carefully reaches out to pet Roach's nose and the mare accepts the touch. “She’s beautiful,” Ciri says. “I had to leave my horse in Cintra. I don’t know what happened to him.”

“We’ll get you a horse.”

Ciri nods and leans her forehead against Roach’s nose. Geralt tenses, ready to pull the princess away at a moment’s notice, but Roach snorts and lips at Ciri’s forehead, which makes a wide smile cross her face.

“Don’t tell Jaskier she let you touch her,” Geralt tells Ciri. “He’ll get jealous.”

“I won’t.” She looks up at Geralt speculatively. “I didn’t expect you to be a witcher. Grandmother didn’t tell me.”

“Hm.” Geralt isn’t sure what to say to that.

“She just told me that you were my destiny.”

“Have you ever heard of the Law of Surprise?”

“Yes. I know my mother was promised to my father by the Law of Surprise. Grandmother always said it was male bullshit.”

Geralt snorts. “She’s not wrong. I saved your father’s life and asked for Law of Surprise as payment. I didn’t realize your mother was pregnant. I should have claimed you years ago, Ciri. I’m sorry. But I didn’t think… I thought you would be safer in Cintra.”

“Cintra was safe, until Nilfgaard came along.” Her voice is barely more than a whisper and she’s keeping her face turned towards Roach. “The man with the winged helmet is after me and I don’t know why. They killed all those people in the camp because they were looking for me.”

“His name is Cahir,” Geralt tells her. “It’s probably because you have your mother’s power.”

She says nothing.

“The night of your parents’ wedding, your mother brought an entire ballroom full of people to their knees with her scream,” he says. “I thought the palace would fall down.”

Ciri shakes her head. “I can’t control it. I start screaming, and it hurts everyone around me. The night Cintra fell, it helped me get away from the Nilfgaardians. But last night, I was just trying to hurt the doppler, but I hurt Jaskier and Dara too. It’s terrifying. When it happens, it’s like I’m not me anymore. It takes over.”

“We’ll teach you control.” If Yennefer won’t help him, Geralt can always reach out to Triss Merigold. They’ve been friendly--occasionally, more than friendly--ever since Geralt dealt with the striga in Temeria.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” She sniffles. “The battle last night sounded close.”

Geralt considers lying to her. “Sodden Hill is maybe five miles away. Closer than I would like, but we should be safe here. We’ll lie low for a few days before we move on. It’s too dangerous to travel with all the soldiers in the area.”

“But I can’t hear the explosions anymore. That means it’s over, right?”

Geralt can still smell the death in the air. “It’s not over.”

“Do you think he’s there?” Geralt doesn’t need to ask who she’s asking about; the scent of fear that accompanies the question is proof enough. He’s not sure what Cahir did to make Ciri so terrified of him, but if he ever comes face to face with the knight in the winged helmet, he’ll make sure the Nilfgaardian will never be able to frighten her again.

“Cahir won’t get near you,” he says gruffly. “You’re safe, Ciri. Nilfgaard won’t touch you as long as I’m still breathing.”

That must be the wrong thing to say, because Ciri’s eyes fill with tears. Before Geralt can figure out a way to fix this--fuck, where’s Jaskier when you need him--Ciri throws her arms around Geralt’s waist and hugs him. Geralt has been embraced more in the last day than in the last several decades.

“I’m glad you found me,” she says.

“Me too, Ciri.”

Geralt doesn’t realize she’s crying until he feels the damp spot on the front of his shirt. She cries noiselessly, her shoulders shaking, and clings to Geralt. He wonders if she’s had time to grieve in her week of running for her life and hiding from Nilfgaard. There’s nothing he can say or do to make this better, so he just holds his child surprise and lets her weep until she can’t weep anymore.

***

Jaskier wakes to an empty bed, which is a bit disappointing, if not entirely surprising. It’s well past dawn, so he’s sure Geralt has been awake for hours. Jaskier stretches luxuriously, feeling sore and exhausted, but very satisfied. He lets himself lie there for a while, lazy and smug about last night's fantastic sex, until his full bladder and his growling stomach force him out of bed. After taking care of the first problem, he goes to see what can be scrounged up for breakfast. To his surprise, he finds Dara already in the kitchen, cooking some eggs on the already lit hearth. The boy isn’t wearing his red hat. When he sees Jaskier, his eyes go huge and his hands fly up to cover his ears.

“It’s alright.” Jaskier folds one of his ears over so Dara can see his scars. “You’re among friends here.”

Dara’s Adam’s apple bobs. “You too?”

“Part-elf on my mother’s side,” Jaskier tells him cheerfully. “I see you raided the chicken coop.”

Dara ducks his head. “I didn’t think the farmers would mind. Who knows when they’re coming back?”

“No judgment from me, my friend.” Jaskier feels much guiltier about the thoroughly sullied bedclothes upstairs. He’ll have to leave some coins for the owners of this abode. “I’m just glad to have some real food in me. That rabbit from last night feels like it was ages ago, doesn’t it?”

“I found some jerky in the pantry too,” Dara says. “And some bread that was only a bit moldy.”

“Mold is just another vegetable,” Jaskier says brightly, though he won’t be touching that bread with a ten foot pole.

Dara smiles and turns back to the hearth.

Jaskier hesitates, then asks, “Dara, do you have a family?”

The boy shakes his head. “Dead in the uprising.”

That’s what Jaskier was worried about. “And you know who Ciri is, right?”

Dara nods. “I’m sorry Ciri lost her grandmother. I’m not sorry Calanthe is dead, not after what she did.”

Jaskier isn’t sure what to say to that. “Do you have anyone? Anywhere you could go?”

Dara shakes his head. “Everyone I knew in Cintra is dead.”

“You’re welcome to travel with us as long as you want,” Jaskier tells him. He hopes Geralt will feel more positively about that than not-Geralt did. “But you know that Nilfgaard is hunting Ciri. The doppler won’t be the end of it. It will be dangerous.”

“Everywhere is dangerous right now.” Dara shrugs. “I like Ciri. If Calanthe was more like her, my family would probably still be alive.”

Jaskier can’t argue with that.

The boy shoots a nervous glance out the window. “That witcher, though. He’s the Butcher of Blaviken, isn’t he?”

“He’s Geralt of Rivia,” Jaskier says firmly. “A man who has spent most of his life protecting the Continent from monsters. He’s bound to Ciri by destiny, Dara. If you’re going to travel with us, you’ll need to get used to him. He’s no threat to you.”

“But all those people in Blaviken—”

“In Cintra, they say that elves live in golden palaces and eat human flesh. You should know better than to listen to the stories of ignorant people.” At the flush on Dara’s face, Jaskier immediately realizes he’s been too harsh. He gentles his tone. “Geralt is one of the best people I know. He saved my life in Cintra, and he saved all of our lives last night. He’ll do anything to protect Ciri and me and as long as you’re traveling with us, you as well. I don’t know what happened in Blaviken, but I know that Geralt would never raise his sword to someone who didn’t deserve it.”

“Sorry,” Dara mutters and Jaskier worries that any headway he’s made with this reticent young man has just been undone.

Jaskier flashes his friendliest smile. “No matter. Just don’t bring it up in front of Geralt. He won’t say, but I think it bothers him, having everyone know him as a butcher. He’s really a big puppy dog, once you get to know him.”

“Puppy dog?” Geralt stands in the doorway with Ciri behind him.

Jaskier grins at the incredulous expression on Geralt’s face. “Well, you are the White Wolf. Dara made breakfast, my darling wolf pup.”

Geralt gives Jaskier a look that would make lesser men shit themselves. If it weren’t for the presence of Dara and Ciri, Jaskier would be having an entirely different physical reaction. He wonders how many more nights they’ll be able to stay in this farmhouse. Once they’re on the road with two children, Jaskier doubts there will be many opportunities for him and Geralt to enjoy the full benefits of each other’s company.

“Oh, good, I’m starving!” Ciri smiles brightly, even though Jaskier notices the evidence of recent tears on her face. Jaskier shoots Geralt an accusing look and Geralt grimaces in response.

They settle around the table with the eggs, jerky, and no longer moldy bread (Jaskier and Ciri don’t touch the bread, though Geralt and Dara have no such compunctions.) It’s far from the finest breakfast Jaskier has ever had, but he still eats his portion ravenously. It’s only when he’s finished that he tells Geralt, “Dara would like to keep traveling with us.”

“Hm.” Geralt eyes the boy. “No family?”

Dara shakes his head.

“And you know it will be dangerous?”

“Yes.”

“And you still want to travel with us?”

“Of course he does!” Ciri looks incredulous. “Dara is my friend.”

Geralt ignores her, his focus on Dara.

The boy’s shoulders slump. “I have nowhere else to go.” He says it like it’s something to be ashamed of, like his family, friends, and home weren’t taken from him by two pointless, vicious wars.

“Like I said, you’re welcome to stay with us as long as you like,” Jaskier tells him gently. “We won’t leave you.”

“Where are we going?” Ciri asks Geralt.

Geralt’s eyes meet Jaskier’s across the table. “Kaer Morhen.”

He says it like a statement, but Jaskier can see the question in Geralt’s eyes. The witcher is checking to see how Jaskier feels about this. Jaskier leans forward eagerly “The witcher keep?”

Geralt nods. “It’s in the Blue Mountains. The path to it is treacherous to climb and overridden with monsters. Nilfgaard won’t be able to follow us there. It will be a safe place to teach Ciri how to defend herself and how to harness her powers. We’ll need to move quickly. It’s about a three week journey from here and after the first real snowstorm of the year, it’s impossible to reach the keep.”

“Will there be other witchers there?” Jaskier asks.

“Probably. There are a handful of us who return to Kaer Morhen every winter.”

A keep full of witchers. Jaskier can only imagine all the stories those men must have: lifetimes lived, monsters fought, loves found and lost. Geralt is inspiring all on his own, but he’s probably even more so when surrounded by his brother witchers. Geralt seems to know what Jaskier is thinking, if the way he rolls his eyes is any indication. Jaskier is about to press for more details about this witcher keep, when Geralt suddenly goes very still.

“What’s wrong?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt is already on his feet, reaching for his swords. “People are approaching. Some on foot, some on horseback. At least a dozen.”

“Could it be the family who lives here?”

“It’s not a family. All men. Nilfgaardian accents. Get Ciri and Dara to the woods. Hide. Don’t come out until I call you.”

“But—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt looks at Ciri and Dara, who are both frozen in their seats. If it were just Jaskier, he would keep arguing. He wouldn’t ever leave Geralt in danger. But he has to think about Ciri and Dara too. Whoever is coming, they can’t find Ciri.

“Come on.” Jaskier seizes Ciri’s hand and pulls her to her feet. Dara follows.

“What about you?” Ciri looks at Geralt with wide eyes.

“I’ll hold them off. No one can know you were here.” Geralt throws open the door. “Now run.”

There’s no time. With one last look at Geralt (no, not the last look, it can’t be) Jaskier makes a break for the tree line. He sprints across the pasture, past a couple of grazing cows, never letting go of Ciri’s hand, while Dara follows them. Just as they make it to the trees, Jaskier looks over his shoulder to see a dozen Nilfgaardian troops approaching the farmhouse, where Geralt stands waiting for them. The knight in the lead rides a black horse and wears a winged helmet.

***

This isn’t the worst odds Geralt has ever faced. The Nilfgaardians are just men, if heavily armed ones. Geralt may only have one sword, but he’s still stronger and faster than any of these fuckers. He stands in the doorway of the house as the soldiers approach, his gaze locked on the one in the winged helmet.

“We’re looking for a girl,” Cahir, the Black Knight, says by way of greeting. “A young princess. We’ve heard you might know where she is, witcher.”

Geralt snorts. “We already know I’m not going to tell you anything, so let’s get to the part where you try to kill me and I send you back to your emperor in pieces.”

Cahir laughs humorlessly. He’s young, probably around Jaskier’s age. Too young to have such an empty, cold look in his eye. “She’s not far, is she?”

“She’s nowhere you’ll find her.”

“Take him alive,” Cahir tells the assembled soldiers and Geralt suddenly feels very tired. He can smell the soldiers’ fear; some of them are hardly more than children. But children or not, they’re here to take Ciri. He can’t let any of them walk away.

As scared as they are of him, the soldiers follow the knight’s orders. They rush at Geralt and he meets them with his sword. The blade cuts through skin and muscle effortlessly and blood splashes on the ground. He cuts a baby-faced solider’s head off, then runs another one through the belly. It’s a messy, slow death, but there’s no time to show the kid mercy and cut his throat, because another soldier is already coming at him. Geralt slashes at the young man’s thigh, severing the artery, then draws his knife and stabs him in the throat. 

There are a half a dozen soldiers dead at his feet when the first arrow hits him in the shoulder. Geralt looks up and finds Cahir loading another arrow into his crossbow. The remaining soldiers stand between Cahir and Geralt, blocking Geralt from attacking the knight. Geralt steps forward just as Cahir shoots another arrow. Geralt should have no trouble knocking it out of the air with his sword, but his reflexes are too slow. His sword suddenly feels very heavy. The second arrow embeds itself in his thigh. Wincing, Geralt takes another step forward and is shot again in the stomach. It’s nothing he shouldn’t be able to shake off, but his movements are growing uncoordinated and sluggish, his thoughts clouded.

Poison.

Geralt’s eyes meet Cahir’s and he sees that the knight is smiling. “Don’t worry, witcher, it’s not fatal. We need you alive for now. When you wake up, you’re going to tell us where the princess is.”

Geralt wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but he doesn’t have time to form the words before darkness floods his vision and he sinks into unconsciousness.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the smut and softness at the beginning made up for the ending! Sorry.
> 
> Also, we're almost to the end! There's only two more chapters left after this one. Thanks to everyone who's been reading this and especially to those of you who have been taking the time to comment. I appreciate all of you.


	12. my wits are my weapons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jaskier,” Geralt says in an undertone. Jaskier is glad he can’t see the witcher’s expression, because he sounds murderous. “What the fuck are you doing here? You should be with Ciri and Dara.”  
> Jaskier decides to ignore his growliness. “I’m here to save you, obviously.”  
> "You shouldn't be here. There's a battle going on."  
> "Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Don’t give me the look I know you’re giving me right now, Geralt. I wasn’t going to leave you to be tortured and killed. I’d sooner cut my own heart out.”  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The majority of these two final chapters are set during the Battle of Sodden Hill. The bulk of the battle occurs off screen, but some of the magical warfare from the show is alluded to. While I tried to stay faithful to the timeline of events in the show, I couldn't quite make everything work the way I wanted, so I took some liberties. Namely, Cahir is abducting Geralt and looking for Ciri when he really should be looking menacing on the front lines and fighting with Vilgefortz. This is why I write AUs.

Jaskier huddles on the ground behind a tree for a long time and waits for Geralt to appear, bloody but victorious. He can’t see Ciri and Dara in their hiding spots, but he knows they’re probably as paralyzed with horror as he is. He has no idea what to do. If they keep running, there’s a good chance that they’ll make enough noise to attract the Nilfgaardians’ attention. If they’re really unlucky, they’ll run into a battalion of soldiers. Jaskier shouldn’t go back to help Geralt. He would be useless and he would leave Ciri and Dara unprotected. So all he can do is crouch here and hope to every god that might be listening that Geralt wins his fight. What are twelve men to one witcher?

A twig cracks nearby and Jaskier stiffens. He looks up to see two Nilfgaardian soldiers striding through the woods, looking around. “Princess Cirilla!” one calls.

Jaskier’s heart sinks. If Geralt had won his fight, there wouldn’t be any soldiers alive to look for Ciri. Keeping low to the ground, he moves around to the opposite side of the tree, pressing his back to the bark. There’s a heavy fog in the air, almost certainly magical, that’s providing some cover, but the soldiers are close. He can hear them on the other side of the tree, sticks breaking and leaves crunching under their heavy boots. If they find him, Jaskier won’t be able to take on both of them. He’ll die. Just like Geralt probably has.

Jaskier swallows back the sob rising in his throat. Now isn’t the time.

One of them calls for Ciri again, but it’s farther away this time. Jaskier peeks around the tree to see the soldiers’ retreating backs. He catches a glimpse of Dara’s eyes, peering at him from under the log where Dara is hiding. Jaskier nods to the boy and begins to head in the opposite direction of the soldiers. Ciri and Dara follow him. Ciri isn’t crying, but she looks like she wants to, while Dara has a glassy look in his eyes. Only ten minutes ago, they were eating breakfast and plotting their journey to Kaer Morhen. Jaskier was grinning at Geralt across the breakfast table. And now Geralt is…

Jaskier can’t think about it. He needs to keep his head on straight for these kids. If he falls apart, they’ll have no one. Jaskier finds a thicket of bushes with dense leaves. It’s too small for him to successfully hide here, but it’s perfect for Dara and Ciri. “Here,” he whispers and Ciri and Dara slip into the bushes, crouching low. The blue of Ciri’s cloak is too visible.

“Ciri, give me your cloak,” he says in a low voice. “It’s too bright. Dara, you’re going to need to keep her warm.”

He expects the princess to argue, but she hands over her cloak without a word of protest. Jaskier does his best to bury it in the snow.

“Where are you going?” Ciri demands.

“I’m going to scout out where the Nilfgaardians are and figure out a safe path out of here,” Jaskier tells her. “And then I’m going to check the farmhouse and see if Geralt… see how Geralt is doing. He might need help cleaning up the bodies of all those soldiers.”

Ciri isn’t fooled by his smile. “Jaskier, there are soldiers everywhere.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll stay out of their way. Dara, do you have your knife?”

The boy nods.

“Ciri?”

“No,” she whispers.

Jaskier takes his knife out of his boot and presses it into her hand. “Only use this if you have no other choice. Stay hidden until I come back for you.”

“But you don’t have a knife now.” Ciri’s eyes are wide.

“My wits are my weapons, princess.” Jaskier knows if he comes face-to-face with a soldier, a knife won’t do him a damn bit of good. It’s more important that Ciri is protected. He knows that Calanthe made sure the princess knows the basics of how to defend herself. “I’ll be back soon. Promise me you’ll stay hidden.”

Both children nod, though Ciri looks like she might argue. Jaskier turns and heads back through the trees. He alleviates his guilt at leaving Ciri and Dara by telling himself that he's doing this for them as much as for Geralt. They need Geralt to get to Kaer Morhen safely. Jaskier doesn’t even know where the witchers’ keep is and even if he did, an elf, a halfling, and a human won’t just be able to stroll through the gates without ending up with a sword to the throat. The best way to keep Ciri and Dara safe is to have Geralt by their side.

And if Geralt is dead, then he at least deserves a proper burial. Jaskier can give him that.

When he returns to the farm, he’s greeted only by silence. No shouting. No ringing of steel against steel. He wants to believe that’s a good thing, that Geralt is probably just inside gathering their things before he comes to find Jaskier and the kids. Geralt will be annoyed that Jaskier came back for him, but Jaskier will kiss his frown away and then they’ll go get Ciri and Dara and everything will be fine. They’ll continue on to Kaer Morhen without another problem.

It’s a childish hope, but it keeps Jaskier going, one foot in front of another until he rounds the side of the farmhouse and finds the pile of bodies. There are eight of them, all clad in the black armor of Nilfgaard. Not a single one of the corpses has white hair, but none of them are wearing a winged helmet. There’s no way Geralt would have let any of the soldiers escape, especially not the knight who has Ciri so terrified.

Jaskier hears a voice bark something in a Nilfgaardian accent and he looks up to see the remaining four soldiers retreating from the farm, luckily heading in the opposite direction of where Ciri and Dara are hiding. The knight in the winged helmet, Cahir, is among them and Jaskier is sure it’s his voice he can hear giving commands to his comrades. One of the other soldiers is leading a horse by the reins, with a dark shape slung over the saddle, either unconscious or dead. They’re too far away for Jaskier to see clearly, but he sees a flash of white hair.

Geralt.

If this were a ballad, Jaskier would give chase. He would manage to take the four Nilfgaardians by surprise and overpower them. Perhaps there would be a dark moment where it looked like all was lost, but Geralt would regain consciousness just in time to come to his aid. They would ride off victorious, leaving the dead soldiers in their wake.

But this isn’t a ballad and Jaskier is frozen, watching the man he loves be carried away by the enemy. Cahir starts to turn his head to look back towards the farm and Jaskier’s heart jumps into his throat. He throws himself behind the pile of bodies and lies facedown in the dirt. On closer inspection, his green doublet would stand out among the black armor, but he can only hope Cahir is far enough away that he won’t notice anything amiss. Jaskier waits, eyes squeezed shut, until the sound of clomping hooves fades in the distance.

Geralt would want him to return to Ciri and Dara’s side now. He wouldn’t want Jaskier to come after him. But this is Geralt, who has saved Jaskier’s skin multiple times and who held him so tenderly the night before. The Nilfgaardians will torture Geralt for information. When Geralt doesn’t give them that information, they will kill him. What kind of person is Jaskier, if he leaves Geralt to his fate? How would he ever be able to look Ciri in the eye again? But how to get into the Nilfgaardian camp? Jaskier is a bard; he’s not exactly inconspicuous.

His eyes land on the closest corpse to him. It’s a young man, barely more than a boy, with a wound in his eye. His remaining eye is brown and staring straight at Jaskier. He’s about Jaskier’s size, if a little shorter and broader in the shoulders. Sending a silent apology to whoever this boy was and whoever he hoped to be before he got conscripted into a pointless, bloody war, Jaskier begins to strip him of his armor.

***

Geralt is woken up by a bucket of brackish water to the face. He sputters and chokes, looking around in confusion. There are too many sounds—running, shouting, cries of pain, explosions in the distance—and too many smells—blood, smoke, fear, death. He’s surrounded by Nilfgaardian soldiers, many of them looking worse for wear. The battle at Sodden Hill is clearly still raging, from the frantic energy humming in the air. Geralt blinks and focuses on the man in front of him.

Cahir is crouched a few feet away from Geralt, carefully out of arm’s reach, watching the witcher intently. When Geralt’s eyes meet his, he smiles. “Apologies for the abrupt wake up. I may have overdone it with the poison. You were going to sleep all day if I let you.”

Geralt takes stock of the state his body is in. The arrows have been removed from his shoulder, thigh, and stomach and the wounds hastily bandaged. They hurt like a bitch, but they won’t kill him. Under the right circumstances, he would be healed by tomorrow. But he’s tied to a tree with thick, scratchy ropes, his back pressed painfully against the trunk. If he were at his full strength, he could probably tear through the ropes, but he was already weakened before the poison. As it is, he’s not going anywhere.

“As you can see, Geralt, we’re in the middle of a battle,” Cahir continues. “There’s much to do, so I’ll get to the point. Where is Princess Cirilla?”

Geralt doesn’t reply, just stares at the knight impassively.

“She’s a young girl wandering near a battle. It’s not safe. Someone needs to find her and give her shelter.”

Geralt snorts. Ciri would be safer in a wyvern’s nest than here.

“You find the security of your child surprise amusing?”

Geralt meets his condescension with more silence and hears Cahir’s heartrate pick up. The knight is angry. Good.

“The princess won’t come to harm in my care,” Cahir says. “My orders are to take her alive.”

Alive doesn’t mean unharmed, Geralt thinks bitterly.

“You have no idea how important that girl is, do you?” The knight shakes his head. “What was your plan for her? You’re a witcher. What can you give a twelve year old Cintran princess, used to softness and luxury? Did you think little Cirilla would join you in hunting down drowners and bruxae?”

Geralt closes his eyes and tries to go into a meditative state. If Cahir is only going to bluster, Geralt may as well get some rest. He hears the clank of Cahir’s armor and knows the blow is coming. The kick lands on his shoulder, right over the arrow wound. Geralt doesn’t react.

“Go get Frigilla,” Cahir snarls.

“Sir, she’s overseeing the mages.” The answering voice is young and nervous.

“Did I ask what she’s doing? I said to go get her!”

Geralt hears one of the soldiers retreating, then feels Cahir move closer to him. “You can sit there stoically all you like, witcher” the knight says in a low voice. “Nothing in your mind will be safe from her. She will wring every thought from your head and then you’ll die on your knees, just like the druid.”

Geralt feels his jaw twitch.

“And if we don’t get what we want from you, I’m sure we can get it from someone else. You were traveling with a bard, were you not?”

Geralt pictures Jaskier being the one tied to this tree, at Cahir’s mercy. That won’t happen. Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara should be far from here by now.

“Cahir, what’s the meaning of this?” A woman’s voice, brusque with annoyance. Geralt can hear the swish of her skirts as she approaches.

Cahir draws away from Geralt. “We found the witcher. He can tell us where the girl is. I need you to look into his mind, Fringilla.”

“I’m a bit busy trying to win a battle right now,” Fringilla says. “Or did you not notice while you decided to galavant off to hunt down a princess?”

“This is more important!”

“She’s just a little girl.” Fringilla sounds very tired and Geralt suspects this is a conversation they’ve had several times.

“Just look in his mind. Find out where she’s gone.” Cahir’s voice is clipped.

“I told you—”

“It wasn’t a request, woman!” 

There’s a tense silence, before cool fingers touch Geralt’s forehead. “Open your eyes, witcher,” the sorceress says.

Geralt opens his eyes. Fringilla is tall for a woman and holds herself like a soldier, with a straight spine and squared shoulders. Her expression is cool as she studies him. “I don’t suppose you’ll save us both some time and just tell us what Cahir wants to know?” she asks flatly.

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “Does he always talk to you like that?”

“Only when he forgets I could turn him into a slug if I wanted to."

Geralt can tell that she and Yennefer grew up at the same school. “You’re not going to find what you’re looking for.”

“I hope that’s not true, for your sake.”

Closing his eyes again, Geralt forces his mind into the perfect blankness of meditation. He pictures himself back at Kaer Morhen, sitting at the top of one of the towers. The wind is cold and crisp on his face and it’s snowing lightly. The landscape below is barren and beautiful with the trees stripped of their leaves by the winter cold and the ground blanketed in untouched snow. He’s on the opposite end of the keep from the living quarters and all he can hear is the wind and his own slow, steady heartbeat. This was always his favorite spot to meditate when he was a boy. The top of this tower is the closest he will ever feel to perfect peace.

He doesn’t know how long passes before Frigilla pulls her hand away. “I can’t get anything,” she says. “Witchers are trained to withstand this kind of thing. We need to lower his defenses.”

“He was just poisoned and bled half to death,” Cahir snaps. “His defenses should be lowered. Try harder.”

“I can sit here and watch him picture a mountaintop all day, but all that’s going to do is waste my time and power. Figure out some way to mentally weaken him, Cahir. Starve him. Beat him. Stop him from sleeping. Just don’t summon me again until he’s ready.”

Cahir makes a disgusted noise as the sorceress leaves. “You,” Geralt hears him bark. “You heard her. Take care of this. Come get me if he decides he’s willing to talk.”

Geralt snorts. Of course Cahir would delegate beating a prisoner to an underling. He doesn’t move or open his eyes as he hears the knight stalk away. A young male voice mutters a curse and a heavy boot connects with Geralt’s groin. It takes everything in Geralt not to flinch. He sits perfectly still, not opening his eyes as blows rain down on him. The soldier tasked with beating him is clearly unpracticed; his punches and kicks are clumsy and inefficient. Geralt tries to slip back into a meditative state, even as a punch catches him across the jaw. If Cahir thinks this is going to weaken him enough that Fringilla will be able to invade his mind, the knight has underestimated him.

And then over the stink of battle and blood, Geralt catches the familiar scents of chamomile and lavender. He opens his eyes and sees the broad, freckled face of the Nilfgaardian beating him just as the soldier kicks him in the stomach. Another soldier is approaching them, in a helmet that’s slightly too big for him and falls into his face. He moves awkwardly, as if he’s unused to the weight of his armor. Geralt knows who it is as soon as he sees him, but he refuses to believe it. Refuses to believe that anyone would be stupid enough to walk into an enemy camp.

But then the soldier peers at Geralt from underneath the brim of his helmet with a familiar pair of blue eyes and there’s no denying it anymore.

It’s Jaskier.

***

The Nilfgaardian camp is in chaos as Jaskier makes his way across it, doing his best to keep his head down without looking like he’s trying to keep his head down. He clutches his side and limps a little for dramatic effect; with the amount of soldiers missing limbs and sporting head wounds being carried by, he blends right in. His helmet keeps slipping into his eyes and his armor doesn’t fit him quite right, but no one spares him a glance. It’s hard to reconcile the ruthless killers who swarmed Cintra with the scared, confused soldiers that are rushing around him. Yennefer and the other mages must be giving them a hard time. Maybe someday, Jaskier will be able to get the story from her.

He has no idea where Geralt is until he catches sight of Cahir stalking through the camp, wearing an expression of barely contained rage. Jaskier only knows one person that frustrating. He hangs back until the knight passes him, and then heads in the direction Cahir was coming from. On the edge of the camp, he finds Geralt bound to a tree with enough rope to hold five normal man, while a stocky youth beats the everloving tar out of him. Geralt doesn’t even seem to notice the blows; his eyes are closed and he’s sitting perfectly still. Jaskier would think he was unconscious, if not for how rigidly he holds himself. His lack of reaction seems to be making the young soldier angry and the kicks and hits grow more vicious.

And then Geralt opens his eyes and his gaze meets Jaskier’s. His expression doesn’t change at all, but Jaskier can feel the weight of that yellow stare and he knows exactly what his witcher is thinking. _What the fuck are you doing here, Jaskier? Why aren’t you with Ciri? Do you have a fucking death wish?_ Jaskier really wishes he had an answer for him.

The soldier doesn’t seem to notice Jaskier’s approach, too focused on beating Geralt. Jaskier glances behind him to make sure that no one is paying attention to them. When he sees that no one is sparing their corner of the camp so much as a glance, he draws the wicked, curved blade he stole from one of the dead soldiers. He doesn’t want to kill another person—he’s still feeling a bit shaky over the last life he took—but he doesn’t see a choice. Jaskier takes a deep breath, then plunges the knife into the side of the soldier’s neck. He catches the kid before he can hit the ground and drags him behind the tree, then kneels down to start sawing through the ropes binding Geralt. Nausea rises in his throat, but he swallows it down and adds it to the list of things that will undoubtedly give him nightmares once he has the time and energy to have nightmares.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says in an undertone. Jaskier is glad he can’t see the witcher’s expression, because he sounds murderous. “What the fuck are you doing here? You should be with Ciri and Dara.”

Jaskier decides to ignore his growliness. “I’m here to save you, obviously.”

"You shouldn't be here. There's a battle going on."

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed. Don’t give me the look I know you’re giving me right now, Geralt. I wasn’t going to leave you to be tortured and killed. I’d sooner cut my own heart out.”

“Fucking bards,” Geralt grumbles.

Despite his shock and terror, Jaskier finds himself smirking. “You weren’t complaining about fucking bards last night.”

“Go back to Ciri and Dara. Where are they?”

“They're hiding. And I'm not leaving without you.” Jaskier grits his teeth as he saws through the thick, scratchy ropes. It’s harder than he looks and he’s not even halfway done. If someone starts looking for the soldier whose body is currently cooling on the ground behind Jaskier, they’re fucked.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says. “Run.”

“I'm almost done, only—”

“Run!”

“What is this?” The sound of the voice makes Jaskier’s heart leap into his throat and he looks up to see Cahir striding towards them, sword already drawn. He’s flanked by six soldiers. When he sees Jaskier, his lips twist into a satisfied smile. “This must be the bard.”

Jaskier tries to saw through the ropes more quickly, but two of the soldiers are upon him in seconds. One kicks him in the chest and he goes sprawling backwards onto the corpse of the soldier he killed. He hears Geralt shout his name as a blade rises in the air above him, pointed straight at Jaskier’s face.

“Take him alive,” Cahir says and Jaskier feels a surge of relief, until the knight adds, “I think he’ll be chattier than the witcher.”

***

Geralt tugs fruitlessly at the ropes binding him as two soldiers shove Jaskier to the ground at Cahir’s feet. Jaskier looks up at the knight defiantly, head held high and gaze steady. Only Geralt can hear his hammering heart and smell the fear rolling off him in waves. Only Geralt can hear the hitch in his breath when Cahir’s sword rests against his throat. Jaskier swallows and his eyes meet Geralt’s. Geralt can see the apology in them and he wishes he could tell Jaskier that he has nothing to apologize for. This brave, loyal, ridiculous man can’t seem to stop himself from putting himself between Geralt and danger, even when it means he ends up in danger himself.

“Witcher,” Cahir says. “What will you tell me in exchange for the bard’s life?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches. “I’ll tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Cahir presses the sword harder and Jaskier lets out a little gasp as the blade pricks the vulnerable skin of his throat. Droplets of blood begin to ooze down his neck.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Cahir studies Jaskier appraisingly. “Creatures like you don’t feel emotions, do you? Yet, you seem to care for the princess. Does the Law of Surprise create feelings that aren’t usually there?”

Geralt would love to give the knight a demonstration of everything he’s feeling right now, but he keeps his expression bored. “Taking care of her is a duty. Nothing more.”

“Naturally. So you won’t feel anything if I slit the boy’s throat?”

“No.” It hurts to say. More than anything, Geralt wants to say or do whatever he can to save Jaskier’s life. He would trade his own life for Jaskier’s life without hesitation. But he won’t trade Ciri’s. He can’t.

Jaskier gives the tiniest nod, like he understands. His brave face is slipping; Geralt can see his mouth starting to tremble. His eyes are so full of love that it hurts to look at, but Geralt can’t look away.

“Interesting.” Cahir takes a step back from Jaskier and the bard sags forward, breathing heavily. The knight turns and brings his sword to Geralt’s throat. “What about you, bard? What would you tell me to save the witcher’s life?”

Horror flashes across Jaskier’s face. “I don’t know anything.”

“That wasn’t convincing. Tell me where the princess is and I’ll spare him.”

“You’re lying. You’re not going to let us live.”

“I’m not a monster,” Cahir says. “I reward cooperation. You care about this thing. Don’t you want to save his life?”

Jaskier doesn’t say anything. He’s shaking.

Cahir draws a shallow cut across Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier makes a choking noise. “Don’t.”

“If you can’t stand to watch him get a little cut, do you think you can watch him die?”

“Jaskier, it’s okay,” Geralt says. He’s lived a long life. If he has to die to keep Ciri safe, then so be it. He just wishes his death would ensure Jaskier’s safety as well.

“I wanted to do this the easy way, bard,” Cahir says. “But I suppose we’ll torture the truth out of you after the witcher is already dead.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Geralt sees the knight tense, preparing to strike. He closes his eyes.

“No!” The sound that tears out of Jaskier’s throat is more animal than human. Geralt’s eyes fly open and he sees Jaskier’s shoulders shaking with sobs. “No, please, don’t hurt us! Please!”

Cahir looks a bit taken aback by the sudden change in Jaskier’s demeanor. “I already told you what I need from you to spare his life.”

“Please, I’ll do anything. I love him.” Jaskier’s voice is barely audible through his tears.

Geralt stares at the bard in shock. He’s seen Jaskier threatened by Nilfgaardian soldiers, Scoia’tael, ghouls, and bandits. He’s seen him terrified out of his mind, exhausted, and grieving. But he’s never seen Jaskier cry and beg like this. This is miles away from the Jaskier Geralt knows, the one who can normally keep his quick wits under duress.

“Tell me where the princess is, and he lives,” Cahir says, raising his voice to be heard over Jaskier’s anguished howls.

“She’s with Yennefer,” Jaskier sobs and Geralt has to stop the sudden smile from crossing his face. Jaskier is putting on an act, the wily bastard.

“Who?”

“She’s a sorceress from Aretuza, an old friend of Geralt’s. I contacted her after you took Geralt.”

“And where is this Yennefer now?”

“Probably with her comrades defending Sodden Hill.”

“You want me to believe that you sent the girl into the middle of the battle?”

“It wasn’t my idea! Yennefer said she would protect Ciri. I swear, I’m telling the truth.”

Cahir studies him for a moment, then demands, “Where is Fringilla?”

One of the soldiers steps forward, looking nervous. “She left the camp, my lord. Said she had business to attend to.”

A vein in Cahir’s temple throbs. “ _Sorceresses._ ”

“You need Geralt alive,” Jaskier says, sniffling. “Yennefer will only hand Ciri over if you have leverage, and Geralt is the best leverage you have. They’re lovers. She’ll do anything to save his life.”

“And what about you, bard?” Cahir asks.

Jaskier lifts his chin. “You don’t need me. If you’re going to kill anyone, kill me. But let Geralt live.”

“No.” Geralt growls the word without thinking, then curses himself. So much for remaining impassive.

“I don’t think so, bard. You’ll prove useful to us yet.” Cahir crouches down in front of Geralt, looking as smug as a wolf in a henhouse. “We’re going to go to Sodden Hill to retrieve your child surprise, witcher. And if you cause any trouble, I’m going to slit your bard open from throat to belly and make you watch him bleed.”

***

Marching towards a battlefield in the middle of a squadron of Nilfgaardian soldiers, Jaskier starts to doubt the brilliance of this plan. Back at the camp, it seemed like their best option. Cahir was about to kill Geralt, and Jaskier couldn’t watch that happen. He thought he could buy them time, at the very least. But with Cahir’s hand clasped on Jaskier’s shoulder and his sword at Jaskier’s back, Geralt won’t make a move and Jaskier wonders if he only delayed the inevitable.

The corpses they pass as they make their way through the woods are only getting grislier: an entire squadron of soldiers with yellow foam dripping down their faces and their eyes bugging out of their heads, a sorceress with her arms torn off, a twisted pile of burned bodies. The fog gets thicker as they walk, until Jaskier can barely see the soldiers directly in front of him. It’s almost a blessing; Jaskier can no longer see the corpses he’s sure are surrounding them.

Jaskier glances over his shoulder at Geralt, who is being marched along several paces behind him, flanked by half a dozen soldiers. In the fog, he can’t make out the expression on the witcher’s face. Geralt’s hands are tied behind his back and he has six swords pointing at him, but Jaskier has no doubt he could get out of this if he weren't concerned for Jaskier's life. Jaskier wants to shout at the witcher to forget about him and do whatever he needs to do to get back to Ciri and Dara. But Jaskier can see from the determined set of Geralt’s jaw that the witcher won’t be going anywhere without him.

“What do you want with Ciri anyway?” Jaskier asks Cahir in an undertone. “She’s just a child. Your emperor has already conquered Cintra. He can’t be after a marriage alliance.”

Cahir’s grip tightens painfully on Jaskier’s shoulder. “She’s not just a child. She’s more powerful than you can imagine.”

“Oh, I can imagine. I’ve seen her in action. If the emperor is looking for a pretty, pliant little princess to install as a figurehead or take as a wife, he’s bitten off more than he can chew. Though I look forward to the day she brings down your City of Golden Towers around your fucking ears.”

“You talk a lot for someone with a blade at their back.”

“You talk a lot for someone with a witcher at yours.”

Behind them, Jaskier hears Geralt snort and despite everything, he feels a little swell of pride in his chest.

“The emperor has no nefarious plans for the girl,” Cahir says. “He merely wants to see her installed in her rightful place on the Cintran throne.”

“The rightful place she would have taken in a few decades if you hadn’t sacked Cintra and slaughtered its citizens?”

“You know nothing, bard.”

“Just because I’m not a brainwashed sellsword—”

“Jaskier.” Geralt no longer sounds amused. Jaskier can hear the words he doesn’t say. _“Don’t get yourself stabbed, you fool.”_

Jaskier doesn’t see how this won’t end with him getting stabbed anyway, but he falls silent.

There’s the sound of something flying through the air over them and Jaskier looks up to see a projectile of some kind. No one has had time to react before it explodes.

“Take cover!” Cahir shouts, releasing Jaskier. Around them, soldiers begin to scream. Someone slams into Jaskier and he falls to the ground, pinned under a writhing soldier. The man on top of him is wailing with agony. There’s a horrible acidic stench in the air; Jaskier’s eyes burn with it. Someone grabs him by the arms and hauls him to his feet. He whirls, flailing wildly and sees Geralt standing there, ropes dangling from his wrist and sword in hand.

“Come on,” Geralt says, reminding Jaskier that this isn’t time to go boneless with relief. Soldiers are dying around them. Whatever is happening to them, it’s causing their skin to smoke. With a horrible jolt, Jaskier realizes he’d be suffering that same miserable fate if the soldier hadn’t fallen on top of him and shielded him.

Geralt tugs on Jaskier’s arm insistently and they stumble into the fog together, leaving the pile of dying men behind them.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter will be posted next week!
> 
> Also, not that it really matters for this story, but when Cahir can't find Fringilla, it's because she's gone off to have her chat with Tissaia. Thank you, canon, for providing me with a convenient reason for the powerful sorceress not to be available to realize Jaskier is lying.


	13. chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You should run,” Geralt says. His face is covered in blood and his eyes are hazy with pain.  
> Jaskier presses a kiss to the cut on his forehead. “I already left you once today and it was the worst thing I’ve ever done. Stop asking me to do it again.”  
> “Jaskier—”  
> “No.” Jaskier rises to his feet and turns to face Cahir.

Geralt can feel the poison still flowing through his veins as he runs. He didn’t realize how much it was affecting him until he and Jaskier made a break for it, but it slows his movements and leaves his limbs weak and heavy. The fog is thick enough to obscure even his vision, leaving him disoriented. It’s magical in origin; his medallion vibrates a warning over his heart. Only the feeling of Jaskier’s hammering pulse under his hand keeps him going, reminding him that he’s responsible for three lives right now. If he allows himself to falter, he won’t be able to get Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara to safety.

He doesn’t realize he’s falling until his knees hit the snow-covered ground. Geralt kneels there, breathing heavily as the world swims around him.

“Geralt!” Jaskier kneels down in front of him, frantic. “What happened?”

Geralt closes his eyes and opens them again, trying to focus on the face in front of him. “Poison. Won’t kill me. It’s just making me weak.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier reaches out to cup Geralt’s face in his hands. “Your pupils are enormous.”

“It’s nearly nightfall,” Geralt says. “You need to get back to Ciri and Dara. Keep going. Just leave me.”

Jaskier gives him a deeply unimpressed look that reminds Geralt of Roach, just a little. He'll tell Jaskier that later, when he has time to be amused by the bard’s offended squawking. 

“You rest for a few minutes,” Jaskier tells Geralt firmly. “And then _we_ will get back to Ciri and Dara. Do you know the way?”

Geralt nods. “But the quickest way will take us too close to the battle.”

“Then we go near the battle.”

“Too dangerous.”

“Everywhere is dangerous right now.” Jaskier gestures around at the enchanted fog. “You won’t let anything happen to us.”

Geralt is on his knees, half-senseless from poison, and Jaskier still has complete faith in him. Geralt closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Jaskier’s. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for being poisoned.”

Geralt shakes his head. “No, back at the camp, I couldn’t stop Cahir. He was going to kill you, and I couldn’t say anything to save you without putting Ciri in danger.”

“Geralt, I would never ask you to risk Ciri’s life for mine. You know that.” Jaskier brushes his lips over the tip of Geralt’s nose. “If our positions had been switched, I would have done the same thing.”

“You’re the one who got us out of that.”

“I guess I’m better at lying than you. Who says my father never gave me anything?” Jaskier laughs humorlessly. “I’ll die if that’s what I have to do to keep Ciri safe or to keep you safe.”

“I’d rather you live.”

“Well, I would too, but I can’t really admit that without sounding unheroic.”

“You are heroic,” Geralt says. “Maybe the most heroic person I know.”

It’s one thing to walk into danger when you’re a witcher or a sorceress, someone who can wield a sword effortlessly or reduce an enemy to cinders with a flick of a finger. But Jaskier has no special abilities. If it weren’t for his smidgen of elven blood, he would be an ordinary human. And still, he keeps walking right into danger. A week ago, Geralt would have called it stupidity. Now, he sees it for what it is: unabashed love and loyalty. Jaskier will go to the ends of the earth for Geralt and someday, Geralt hopes he’ll deserve that.

But he doesn’t know how to put all that into words, the swell of emotion he’s been feeling since Jaskier looked into Cahir’s eyes and begged for Geralt’s life and not his own. So he hauls himself to his feet, biting back his pained moan, and says, “We should move.”

“Really?” Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “Because you still don’t look so good.”

“We need to move.” In the distance, Geralt hears a tremendous explosion, followed by the sounds of a building crumbling and screams. Without a doubt, he knows that something terrible just happened to the mages defending Sodden Hill. Fuck, he can’t add Yennefer to the list of people to worry about right now. She can take care of herself. He needs to focus on the safety of Jaskier, Ciri, and Dara, who are too vulnerable to be this close to a battlefield.

Jaskier must see the look on his face, because he demands, “What’s wrong? Are you going to fall over again?”

“No. Nilfgaard’s winning. Let’s go.”

Geralt lets Jaskier loop his arm around his waist. He tells himself that it’s for Jaskier’s comfort, not for his own support. Jaskier matches his steps as they move through the trees, his arm firm around Geralt. Their progress is painfully slow, but Geralt knows that if they quicken their pace, he’s likely to fall over again.

Abruptly, Jaskier stops dead. They’ve come to a steep, rocky hillside where there was clearly a battle between mages and Nilfgaardian soldiers. It looks like no one won. The ground is littered with corpses, many of them burned or hacked to bits. In the distance, Geralt can see smoke billowing into the air on the horizon and hear the screams still coming from Sodden Hill. None of them sound like Yennefer, which may or may not be a good thing. If she’s not screaming… well, it could be because she’s unable to scream anymore.

He scans the bodies on the ground and is relieved that none of them are Yennefer, Triss, or anyone else he knows. One of the corpses has long, dark hair and for a moment, he feels completely numb, but then he sees that she’s wearing a red dress. Yennefer would sooner wear a rucksack than be seen in bright colors.

But he’s so focused on the corpses, that he nearly doesn’t hear the clink of armor and the crunch of footsteps in the snow until their attacker is upon them. Just in time, he shoves Jaskier away and turns, bringing his sword up to meet Cahir’s blow.

***

Jaskier lands on a dead Nilfgaardian soldier, nearly cutting his hand off on the fallen man’s sword. He seizes the sword and scrambles to his feet. Geralt and Cahir’s weapons clang together as they fight in a flurry of motion. Geralt might be injured, but he’s still holding his own against the knight. Cahir isn’t looking so great himself; he’s lost his helmet and his face is badly burned. But his eyes are alive with malice as he lunges for Geralt.

“Just bring me to the girl, and we can end this,” Cahir says.

Geralt casts Aard and sends the knight flying backwards. “That’s not how I’m going to end this.”

Cahir is on his feet instantly and comes at Geralt, sword raised. Jaskier watches them, clenching his own sword tightly. Even if he were skilled with a blade, Jaskier couldn’t try to help without risking accidentally stabbing Geralt. They’re moving too fast, their blades a blur in the air as they battle. But remembering how fast the witcher moved when he fought the soldiers in Cintra and the ghouls, Jaskier knows this is Geralt being sluggish. If Geralt were at his full strength, Cahir would already be dead.

When Geralt steps on one of the corpses and stumbles, a cry of alarm escapes Jaskier’s lips. Geralt’s eyes flicker towards him and Cahir takes advantage of his instant of distraction. Cahir’s sword slashes across Geralt’s right arm and shoulder, cutting deep, and Geralt reels backwards and falls to his knees. Cahir drives his foot into Geralt’s chest and Geralt rolls down the rocky hill. Jaskier hears the horrible thud of Geralt reaching the bottom of the hill and he gives chase, half-running and half-sliding down the steep incline. When he reaches Geralt, he drops to his knees.

“Geralt!”

His witcher’s forehead is bleeding and his eyes are unfocused; he must have hit his head. The gash left by Cahir’s sword is deep, but doesn’t look like it hit anything vital. It would probably heal in a couple of days, if they live that long. As it is, Jaskier can hear the slow tread of Cahir’s boots as the knight makes his way down the hill. He’s taking his time, because he knows he doesn’t need to hurry. The thought fills Jaskier with impotent fury.

“You should run,” Geralt says. His face is covered in blood and his eyes are hazy with pain.

Jaskier presses a kiss to the cut on his forehead. “I already left you once today and it was the worst thing I’ve ever done. Stop asking me to do it again.”

“Jaskier—”

“No.” Jaskier rises to his feet and turns to face Cahir. He’ll be damned if he lets Cahir kill Geralt while he’s on the ground and injured.

Cahir wears the smug expression of someone who’s already won. “The princess isn’t at Sodden Hill, is she?”

“Do you really think I’d send a child to a battlefield?” Jaskier asks coldly.

“The witcher needs to die, bard. He’s proven to be too much of a hassle. But you can still live if you tell me where you’ve left her.”

"Go to hell."

Cahir doesn’t look surprised, but disappointed, like a kindly uncle who just found out who really broke that family heirloom. “You know we’ll find her eventually. The emperor will have us dismantle the Continent bit by bit until she’s found.”

“Maybe.” Jaskier shrugs. “But I still won’t help you. I’d say I’d rather die, but I think that’s obvious.”

He would really prefer not to die, but there doesn’t seem to be any point in mentioning that. Geralt’s not moving behind him and he wonders if the witcher has lost consciousness.

Cahir raises his sword and Jaskier brings his up in an approximation of the defensive stance he learned in his childhood rapier lessons. He may at least be able to buy Geralt another minute or two to get back on his feet. And if not, then he can at least die an inconvenience to Cahir. The knight comes at him and Jaskier tenses.

And then a hand presses roughly on his hip, shoving him out of the way, and Geralt thrusts his sword upwards, right into Cahir’s stomach. The knight lets out a funny little cough and blood dribbles down his chin and splatters across the snow. His sword falls out of his hand, but he stays on his feet, swaying slightly.

“Cirilla…” he croaks.

“Won’t have to be afraid of you anymore,” Geralt snarls, and drives the sword in deeper. And then the Black Knight falls. His eyes are already glazed over in death when he hits the ground.

Geralt turns to Jaskier. “Are you alright?”

“You’re the one who just fell off a cliff!”

“Not a cliff. Barely a hill.” Geralt shrugs. “Are you okay?”

Jaskier nods, swallowing convulsively when he looks at Cahir’s corpse. “You know, I thought I’d repaid any life debts to you back at the camp, but you just saved my life again. It’s my turn next time.”

Geralt just grunts and jerks his sword out of Cahir’s corpse, then wipes it clean on his pants. He takes a step and staggers. Jaskier puts his arm around Geralt to keep him on his feet, biting back his own groan of pain. The witcher isn’t a small man and supporting him is no easy feat, but Jaskier manages to keep them both upright.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Jaskier says and slowly, they step over Cahir’s body and make their way up the hill.

***

Night has fallen and the air is thick with fog and smoke. The sounds of the battle are getting closer, but Geralt and Jaskier keep walking, determined to get to Ciri. It’s slow going; poison, blood loss, and a concussion have left Geralt weak and shaky. But Jaskier is there, his arm solid and surprisingly strong around Geralt’s waist, murmuring reassurances in Geralt’s ear. It’s foolish to feel comforted when they’re this close to a battlefield, but the warmth of Jaskier next to him is reassuring.

They run across a handful of Nilfgaardian soldiers and despite his injuries, Geralt is able to dispatch the ones who confront them. Most don’t even seem to notice the witcher and the bard; they’re too focused on either running towards or away from the battle. Jaskier does have to kill one of them while Geralt is busy with two other soldiers, much to Geralt’s dismay. That’s three lives that Jaskier has had to take. Jaskier only looks like he’s going to be sick for an instant before he puts his arm around Geralt again and they continue on their way.

And then Geralt hears them: a lot of soldiers, probably several squadrons, coming their way.

“We need to run,” he says.

Jaskier gives him a dismayed look. “Geralt, you’re hurt.”

“There are soldiers coming. Lots of soldiers.”

“Maybe it’s those Temerian reinforcements Yennefer was talking about?”

Geralt shakes his head. “Jask, I won’t be able to fight them.”

Hopelessness flickers in Jaskier’s eyes and Geralt hates himself for being the one to put that expression there. Jaskier looks as exhausted and pained as Geralt feels, but he nods. “Okay.”

They run. Their pace is slow, even for humans. Geralt leads the way, trying to guide Jaskier around fallen trees, rocks, and corpses, but the bard keeps stumbling, his hand jerking in Geralt’s grasp every time he almost loses his balance. Geralt can hear another group of soldiers approaching from their right side, on top of the squadrons behind them, and he steers Jaskier in the opposite direction. With every step, he expects his legs to give out under him again, but he keeps going. They need to survive so they can get back to Ciri and Dara. Geralt needs to survive to keep Jaskier safe. Jaskier just needs to survive.

Geralt is so focused on the sounds of the soldiers behind them that he doesn’t realize just how close they are to the battle until they clear the treeline and find themselves looking up at a half-destroyed keep. Bodies litter the ground around the keep and Nilfgaardian soldiers are streaming up the hill towards what remains. Geralt looks around for all the mages that were supposed to be protecting Sodden Hill, but all he sees are soldiers in black armor.

And then he sees her.

Yennefer stands at the top of an outcropping of rocks in front of the keep, on the other side of the sea of soldiers from Geralt and Jaskier. Her hair is disheveled, her face is bloody, and Geralt can tell from the way she’s curled in on herself that she’s injured. Even from this distance, he can see the determined set to her jaw and the way her eyes glitter.

Her eyes meet his. He’s too far away; she shouldn’t be able to see him. But something flickers in her face and she gives a nearly imperceptible nod. Geralt tightens his grip on Jaskier as she raises her hands and flames pour out of them, engulfing the horde of Nilfgaardian soldiers. She opens her mouth in a silent scream, features twisting in rage and pain.

As the flames roar towards them, Geralt slams Jaskier to the ground and covers the bard with his body. He knows it will be useless; he’s too weak to cast an effective Quen shield. Even if he managed, it wouldn’t be enough to block out the wall of flame coming at them. But to his shock, the flames part around him and Jaskier, even as the soldiers nearest them are burnt to ash. Geralt can hear the screams of the dying on all sides, though he can’t see anything through the fire.

He curls himself around Jaskier protectively. Jaskier’s hands cup Geralt’s face, his palms slick with sweat. Geralt can feel Jaskier shaking under him and he holds on tighter. He hears Jaskier say something, but the words are lost over the roar of the flames.

“It’s alright,” Geralt murmurs, even though he knows Jaskier won’t be able to hear him. “We’re alright.”

And then the flames vanish, leaving an expanse of charred corpses and fallen weapons. Geralt sits up and looks around for Yennefer, but the rock she was just standing on is empty.

“Yennefer!” A woman’s voice calls and he looks around to see a dark-haired sorceress stumbling across the battlefield. Yennefer must have spared her from the flames as well. “Yennefer!”

But there’s no reply. Yennefer is gone.

***

“Ciri,” Dara says in a low, hoarse voice. “We can’t stay here all night.”

She rubs her face. “I’m not cold anymore.”

“That’s not a good thing.”

They’ve huddled together in the bush where Jaskier left them all day and well into the night. Even with Dara huddling against her for warmth, Ciri is colder than she’s ever been in her life. Jaskier should have been back hours ago.

“If we move, Jaskier and Geralt may not be able to find us,” she reminds Dara.

Dara’s silence is answer enough. He doesn’t think Jaskier and Geralt will be in any state to find them. Ciri closes her eyes. She was supposed to be safe once she found Geralt. It was all supposed to be over. And now Geralt and Jaskier are both gone and she and Dara are worse off than they were before. At least they were safe, warm, and fed in Brokilon Forest.

“Hey.” Dara shakes her and Ciri realizes she was nodding off. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you freeze to death. Come on.”

Ciri’s frozen body protests pitifully as she moves, but she stands up, brushes herself off, and follows Dara. They’ve only taken a few steps when there’s the _whoosh_ of a portal opening up and a woman staggers out in front of them, clutching her stomach. Ciri feels a surge of panic before the woman looks up and violet eyes fix on Ciri’s face.

“Yennefer?” Ciri asks tremulously.

Yennefer jerks her head in a nod and sways on her feet.

“What happened?” Ciri looks the sorceress up and down, taking note of the bloody wound on her stomach.

Yennefer doesn’t say anything; her eyes are wide and glassy.

“Come on, let’s get her back to the house,” Ciri tells Dara and takes Yennefer’s hand.

“It might not be safe.”

“She’s hurt. We need to get her somewhere warm. She’ll protect us if she has to.”

Dara shoots Yennefer a skeptical look, but doesn’t argue any further as they make their way back towards the farmhouse. 

“Did you see Geralt and Jaskier?” Ciri asks Yennefer. “Are they okay?”

The sorceress makes a noise that could be a reply or could be a groan. It’s hard to tell.

“What’s wrong with her?” she whispers to Dara.

“Shock.”

The farmhouse is quiet and empty, with a pile of dead soldiers by the front door. Jaskier and Geralt aren’t among them. As Ciri goes to pull the door closed behind her, Dara exclaims, “Ciri, look!”

Ciri turns to see two figures making their way towards the house, moving slowly and stiffly. Both are tall and broad-shouldered. For a horrible instant, Ciri thinks it’s more soldiers. But the fog has cleared and the moon is bright, illuminating a head of white hair. Suddenly, all of Ciri’s discomforts—the pain in her legs from kneeling all day, her frozen fingers, her numb lips—vanish. Geralt and Jaskier are alive. They came back.

She runs to greet them, crying with joy even before she flings herself into their arms.

***

Geralt sleeps for three days.

On the morning of the first day after Sodden Hill, a sorceress shows up at the door of the farmhouse. She’s petite with dark hair pulled back into a knot and a high-collared dress and even though she looks to be in her mid-thirties, her eyes are ancient. “I’m here for Yennefer of Vengerberg,” she says in a brisk voice.

Jaskier stands by the door, knife in hand, knowing he won’t win this fight, but ready to die trying anyway. Ciri and Dara are hiding under Geralt’s bed upstairs.

“Put that away before you hurt yourself,” the sorceress snaps. “I’m here to help her. Move out of my way, or I will move you.”

Jaskier moves out of her way. Yennefer has been unconscious since the night before, but the sorceress is in her room for a long time. He hears the murmur of their voices. He doesn’t dare listen at the door— he has a feeling that eavesdroppers will be turned into something unpleasant— but he stays on the landing until the sorceress leaves.

“What about Geralt?” he asks the woman on her way out the door.

“I have dozens of injured comrades to attend to,” she says briskly. “The witcher just needs to sleep off his wounds. He’ll be fine in a day or two.”

“Can’t you take a look?”

“No,” she snaps. “But I put up enough wards around this house that no one will be able to find you. The family that lives here could try to return home and they’ll walk right by.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier blinks, surprised, but she’s already gone. He’ll only realize later that he never got her name.

Yennefer doesn’t come out of her room until that night. She’s still quiet and unsteady on her feet, but the wound in her stomach appears to be healed and she’s well enough to threaten to cut off Jaskier’s manhood no less than three times, so he thinks she’ll live. For better or for worse.

The second day after Sodden Hill, they find some boy’s clothes that fit Ciri reasonably well and Jaskier cuts her hair as short as a boy’s. Jaskier knows Nilfgaard will be looking for a witcher, a bard, and a little girl. He’s hoping they’ll be reasonably thrown off by Geralt and Jaskier traveling with what appear to be two young boys. Jaskier returns to her the tattered slippers he and Geralt found at the refugee camp. Later that night, he catches sight of her out behind the stables, burying them. He considers going to join her, but she seems like she wants to be alone to grieve the life she’s leaving behind.

On the third day after Sodden Hill, Yennefer tries to use magic to light the hearth while they’re making breakfast and starts a fire that probably would have burnt the house down if a quick-thinking Dara hadn’t thrown Jaskier’s brand new cloak over it to smother the flames. Jaskier mourns the cloak, but is glad to have his life. Yennefer storms out of the house without a word and doesn’t return until nearly dusk.

“Are you alright?” Jaskier asks her.

The look she gives him is so venomous that he takes a step back. “We’re not friends, bard.”

“Well aware. I’d like to know if you’re going to burn the house down, though, so I can store my things outside if need be.”

She sneers at him and stalks to her bedroom.

“You shouldn’t be mean to her,” Ciri tells him solemnly. “I’m pretty sure she could kill you.”

Jaskier grins. “Oh, she definitely could, princess. That’s what makes antagonizing her so fun.”

It’s late that night when he’s lying next to a still-sleeping Geralt that the witcher finally stirs. Jaskier isn’t asleep; he’s barely slept since Sodden Hill. But when Geralt makes a sleepy noise and turns to look at Jaskier, the exhaustion of the last three days overtakes him and he finds himself unable to keep his eyes open.

“We’re all okay,” he manages to tell Geralt, voice thick with relief. “Yennefer, Ciri, Dara. We’re all okay.”

And then for the first time in three days, he falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Geralt holds the sleeping bard until dawn. Jaskier smells of old fear and stress and there are dark shadows under his eyes, but his sleep is peaceful and undisturbed by nightmares. He sleeps snuggled into Geralt’s side, his face pressed against Geralt’s neck. Soothed by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the rise and fall of his chest, Geralt is loath to leave him. But as the sun turns the horizon pink, the restlessness of having been in bed for three days overtakes Geralt and he slips out of Jaskier’s arms and outside.

To his surprise, he finds Yennefer standing outside, in the spot where a pile of dead soldiers lay only a few days ago. The snow is still bloody and trampled.

“You’re up,” she says without turning to look at him.

“I am.” He goes to stand next to her. “You were hurt.”

“Tissaia stopped by. I’m fine.”

“Are you?”

She huffs out a breath. “Don’t tell me you’re going to start talking about feelings now, Geralt. You’ve only had the bard for two weeks. He can’t have rubbed off on you that much.”

Geralt doesn’t dignify that with a response. “There was a fire in the kitchen.”

“Why do you assume it was me? Have you met your bard?” When Geralt doesn’t say anything, she lets the silence hang in the air for several moments, then adds, “Since Aretuza, I’ve kept my chaos bottled up. That's one of the first things they teach us how to do. I always thought control was power. The other night, I unleashed it all. I didn’t hold back for the first time in decades.”

“I saw.”

“It’s gone, Geralt. Well, not gone. I can still feel it. But it’s like it’s behind a wall. Every time I try to use magic, nothing happens or it comes out all wrong.” Yennefer’s voice is raw with frustration. “It doesn’t feel like it’s mine anymore. It’s like waking up to find someone else’s arm sewed on where yours used to be.”

“Hm.”

“Tissaia suggested I lie low for awhile. Apparently, when you incinerate hundreds of Nilfgaardian soldiers and mages, you make people angry. And gods know, Fringilla already hated me. I’m sure there’s quite a price on my head.”

“Come to Kaer Morhen with us.” Geralt is as surprised by the suggestion as she is.

Yennefer shoots him an incredulous look. “What would I do in Kaer Morhen?”

“You said so yourself. Ciri’s powers are pure chaos. She’ll need help learning to harness it. And we can help keep you safe from Nilfgaard.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yenn.”

“I already told you, I’m not a damn nursemaid.”

“Then don’t come as a nursemaid. Come as my friend.”

“Friend,” she says flatly. “Is that what we are now?”

He feels like he's on the precipice of fucking this all up irrevocably. “You’re still important to me, Yennefer. You always will be. I would like us to be friends.”

She’s quiet for so long, he thinks she might not respond at all. Then she says, “Gods, he really has made you soft. I should come with you, in case you’re so busy swooning like a maiden that you get yourself eaten by a bruxa.”

“Thank you.”

Yennefer sighs. “You’re important to me too, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“Your bard is a pain in the ass though.”

“He’ll grow on you.”

“Unlikely.”

Geralt doesn’t feel the need to reply. They stand there and watch the sun rise in silence.

***

“Tell me about Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier says the next day, when they’re packing up to leave the farmhouse.

Geralt shrugs as he loads up Roach’s saddlebags. “Not much to tell. Half of it was destroyed in a pogrom a while back. But the half of the keep that remains isn’t particularly homey. It’s big and drafty. It won’t be a luxurious winter retreat.”

“I can make any place luxurious, Geralt. Just watch.”

Geralt’s lips twitch. “There’s a library that I think you’ll like. And hot springs underneath the keep.”

“Hot springs? Oh, you’re absolutely going to fuck me in the hot springs, right?”

Geralt tries to suppress his grin, but Jaskier can see the curl of his lips. “Why do you think I invited you along?”

“I think you meant that to be offensive, but I’m absolutely okay with you using me for my body if I get to spend all day in a hot spring. What are the other witchers like?”

“Lambert’s a prick. You two will hate each other. Eskel’s quiet, but he’s kind. He’ll like you. Vesemir’s the old weapons master. You’ll never know what he thinks of you, and it will drive you crazy, but you’ll learn to live with it.”

“What about everyone else?”

“There is no one else, Jaskier.” Geralt looks unbearably sad for a moment, but then he smiles. “Kaer Morhen isn’t much, but it’s home to me. I hope it can become a home to you too.”

Jaskier can feel himself melting into a vaguely man-shaped puddle. “Of course it will be a home to me, dear heart. You’ll be there.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to his witcher’s mouth.

“Oh no.” Yennefer strides out of the house. “I refuse to spend the rest of the winter watching the two of you play grab ass. Bad enough that I had to listen to it last night.”

Jaskier scowls at her. “Remind me why you’re coming along, again?”

“Nilfgaard is probably after her,” Geralt says. “Doesn’t seem right to let the entire empire get massacred.”

Yennefer’s grin is downright predatory. Only the knowledge that she can’t access her chaos stops Jaskier from flinching backwards.

Ciri and Dara come outside, with Dara carrying what’s left of their luggage. Ciri looks a bit misty-eyed when she looks back at the farmhouse. “Are you sure we can’t stay?” she asks. “It’s so nice here.”

Jaskier puts an arm around her. “That’s not fair to the people who live here. They might be wandering around, wondering what on earth happened to their lovely home.”

“Kaer Morhen is at least a three week journey,” Geralt adds. “Longer if the snow hits before we get there. We should have left days ago.”

“I won’t apologize for not dragging you out of unconsciousness, Geralt.” Jaskier rolls his eyes. “You clearly needed the sleep.”

“I would have been fine.”

Jaskier’s eyes meet Yennefer’s and he sees his own exasperation mirrored in her expression. For a moment, they seem to share a moment of pure understanding. Then they simultaneously seem to remember that they don’t like each other and they turn away.

“Will I like Kaer Morhen?” Ciri asks Geralt.

“Hm.” Geralt shrugs. “Depends on how you feel about ruins.”

Jaskier elbows him in the side. “It’s going to be an adventure, princess. You’ll love it.”

Ciri smiles at that, but Dara looks concerned. “I think I’ve had enough adventure,” he says quietly.

“This will be a good adventure,” Jaskier assures him.

Yennefer snorts skeptically.

Jaskier catches Geralt watching him and for a moment, he wonders if his witcher is going to be an idiot and try to convince Jaskier not to come to Kaer Morhen. Instead, Geralt says, “You just think you’re going to get a song out of it.”

“Oh, I’m going to get so many songs out of it, Geralt. Consider this: ‘Toss a Coin to Your _Witchers._ ' Multiple witchers. And I’m sure I can get a song or two out of Yennefer.”

“I wouldn’t,” Yennefer says. “There are so many ways to kill someone and make it look like an accident in a crumbling ruin on a mountaintop.”

Jaskier sniffs. “Everyone would know it was you.”

“I don’t know about that. Anyone who spends more than thirty seconds in your company has a motive.”

He smiles at her sweetly. “I’m so looking forward to getting to know you better, Yennefer.”

With a groan, Yennefer turns away. Ciri laughs and Geralt flashes Jaskier a half-fond, half-exasperated smile.

“You’ll be happy at Kaer Morhen,” Geralt tells Ciri. “All of you will be. I’ll make sure of it.”

Jaskier reaches out to squeeze his hand. “We will be.”

He has no idea what’s coming next. Nilfgaard is still a threat, even with Cahir dead. The emperor apparently wants Ciri for some nefarious purpose, so others will come looking for her. Jaskier is under no illusions that they’ll live out the rest of their lives in peace at Kaer Morhen. The future is a terrifying unknown, one that will almost certainly be filled with more fear and danger.

But walking next to Geralt as they leave the farm, with his lute strapped to his back, it feels less like wandering into the unknown and more like embarking on the grand adventure he told Ciri it would be. He has Geralt. He has Ciri, who is dearer than a little sister to him, and Dara, who could become just as dear. He even has Yennefer, who he is determined to make his friend, one way or another. He has to believe that they'll be okay in the end. They'll make it through whatever Nilfgaard throws at them. And whatever life Jaskier is able to build with Geralt, and maybe with Ciri, Dara, and Yennefer too, it will be a good one.

Because no matter what happens next, he knows it will be worth singing about.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, especially those of you who have taken the time to comment. I appreciate every one of you!
> 
> You may have noticed that this is now the first work in a series. I always intended this to be a standalone, but over the last couple of weeks, there's been an idea for a sequel that won't leave me alone. That being said, I probably won't get around to writing the sequel until later this summer, because I have the next installments in my two other series (I have a problem) to work on first. But if you're interested in reading about Jaskier, Geralt, Yennefer, Ciri, and Dara traveling to Kaer Morhen and becoming a weird, unexpected (to them) little family, please subscribe to the series!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are much appreciated.  
> Updates are posted every Thursday.


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